Last Poem

_R(Easter morning salvia trip)

A white doorway wider than it should be – I see it
From the ground, jambs
Repainted and repainted to mimic burn-scarred skin - melted.
Door open, white white, nothing exists behind it: the
empty boom of the boom box at the feet of the man
Whose fingers are blacked at the tip like
burnt-out cigarettes, their
smokey ends limp, but gesticulating –
Over there, over there, over there,
Through that doorway.