Don't you sometimes wonder who or what waits for us, there, beyond?
The poem I was writing
in a cancer-ridden, festering, open
The words I were searching
in the bottom of the black-water well
I was too frightened to explore.
That song that defines me
in the tender rotting heart of the baby
rejected by life years ago.
So when my arms reach out and flail
against harsh white emptiness, who are you
that waits; beyond that closed door?