The Door*

the future then

standing on that road
outside Blaubeuren
even the dust
shines and is white

staring with eyes
newly-concentrated
at the wheatfield becoming

more than wheat, or
for the first time, wheat

a vibratory world
of timeless power, humming
molecular dynamo
and awesome geometry

razor-sharp planes

electric blue &
liquid gold

if i could see
then, the battering years
ahead:

shocked, drugged, poor
in all ways; or
just that one terrible
moment when i smashed
my head repeatedly
on the linoleum floor
to free it—

would i still stare
through this shimmering door

feeling myself enter?

[*“The Door” was the final poem in my self-published collection Black and White Pictures After a Rainstorm, 1988.]