The Meadow 161 The blue door Peter Grandbois We are only October’s Dream drifting fog down The forest path where The slender spider Like whispering hands Ballets the quiet, Only a woven coat Biting back omens Of emptiness and cold That gutter alleys and Throats choked with rain, Only a revenant With eyes closed To former selves and Winds that shape them Into thin notes that Crack and snap like Bewitched twigs beneath Bleeding feet shuffling Through their own schizophrenic syntax Of desire that threads Through our bodies Until with lanterns Lit like open hands We step into ghosts Stitched from all we are Or have ever been, Into the fire burning Into the church of stone Into the blue bird Singing the only door That leads to the only Sky we might call home.
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