No invitations left for it.
I am all outside now
Beyond any framework for this god of doors
Its first face is four years long
I am tired of looking through its road-salt eyes
The month’s mouth is a boy’s knee
Punctured by a splayed root
Its voice is a wrist shattered like ice
Its ears a bird caught in a basement
On the coldest night of the year
Its other face is a choice
Nobody saw coming
The winter rain is unhappy drifting against the window
It cannot come in it is too light to knock or ask
Beyond a whisper in the puddles which the mud steals
As its own only long enough for the steps to take it up
So we know whether the steps are coming here
Or to a there in a different direction going away in the silent rain
The snow though voiceless collects its silence upward
To visibility the shape of a voice without argument
This is the source of the grudge the steps carry away
This is why we are frightened as the steps come
From nowhere on a quiet morning when nothing
Should be arriving but the day a few minutes earlier
But here they come after the quiet winter rain
In the minutes surprised at how new the world is
seconds still falling like rain too soft
to cry out after slipping on a dream
Of ice on the heel of waking on these longer days
Translations from the English 