There’s a little trap door… 

maybe it’s on the wall, the ceiling, the floor, anywhere,

the little trap door, no larger than the top of a cigar box.

And finding it, a lover, without the pretensions of the world,

is occasionally able to lift the chain that allows an opening.

 

Sometimes in the chaos there’s a voice;

sometimes a slide that winds round, and down, or

up through fields of stretch and thickets of imagination

to reach the sought.

Puzzle pieces, that sometimes

fit together, sometimes not

often with ragged edge or unformed shape,

swirl round.

The idea forming, silvery translucent,

waits.

 

Words wrestle with the terror, the beauty, the boredom

of existence;

words that yield;

words that are tactile, pungent, vibrant, moving.

 

It’s like suddenly there’s a music box,

only not,

and a tiny ballerina, wearing a dress

with sparkles or tatters,

only not….

And finally, suddenly, occasionally,

the idea is spun,

clothed and radiant, without the cliché,

startling, effacing the ordinary.