You Are

in danger of becoming
the door to everywhere
that matters, the un- of this,
more here and now than This.

the key to that door
with stamped on it:
I’m not your key,
make one for yourself – from me.

the angel to my incompleteness
I follow but can’t see,
the hem of the opera cloak
at the top of the stairs.

the one ahead
but stand back as the door swings
open to an emptiness
that cancels you, or me.

a bruise to the heart’s root,
the silent stroke,
disturbing nothing,
that leaves nothing undisturbed.