The day is a new threshold Fitted to an old door. The strip of light along the floor Is the knife that forks my tongue. Hear me crow this bloody sound, Cock of dawn, to raise the dead. Cry this lonely sound, the sound Of all doors banging open, or shut, Is only a sound, unnamable In early light, warm as the dusk When the ground still holds, Though shut up, something of the sun.
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