what is it that's being divined in

the murk, in the bullish presence

of unclothed trees?

that malign secrets that can't be

kept, what inevitably slows spinning

faces?

upon which time the heart's going to

be sick, and wretch into frozen blood?

is this what you came for in answer--

what responds to a knock upon a door...

and what does not appear when opened

becomes the envy of the unborn.