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And sometimes it is you, the door.
a slice of light spilling around your edges.
Seeping beneath your sill.
The force of it scours you from the inside,
great heaving gasps that rattle your hinges.
Sing against your ribs.
A way out,
but a way in too.
[Editor’s Note: Publication of this poem was made possible by a gift from Moira Moran during our annual Kickstarter.]