Chora

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.