Door

The door is closed
Brass knobs turned
Shafts on still wood

Once open a noise ago
Letting flood of voices
Diminished now to a memory

Mismatched paint the scar
Bleeding hose water on an
Untended pot of beans

Light sneaks through
The weather warped edges
Shrunken now an inch or so

Unnatural eye unmoved
To see the ground bending
Up to meet the drooping sky

A missing knocker
Stolen by boys
left unrepaired cobwebs

The door is closed
Brass knobs turned
Waiting for the spiraling pad
Of new flesh upon the surface