Portico

This is for an easy
indecision, a mercy

from the glare
that drives into the eyes

we were born with,
placed on the front

of the head, the calm
and muscle of the hungry,

watching for the watchful
side-sight of prey.

Out here stands the animal,
muddying the cracks,

looking out from ledges:
A stark collection of parts.

It is wanting for paper
to be put together

with the same
seamlessness with which

we know ourselves.
What is it to walk

through a door?
Posts cast long oblong

places of shade,
built, in the heat,

for hesitation. There are
only two worlds,

and we cannot remain
in between.