Three Poems

The Door

The door opens on sun,
and the din
    of tractors working the land

two farms away. Their tines
rake clay
    lined with birds’ bones,

or ropes of hay,
thesaurus of the rural poor…
    Squint out at the day

and you’ll see how each door
frames and crops
    a new story:

once upon a time. …Like luck
it’s gone tomorrow,
    so seize the handle. Hinges strop

but soon a squeezebox quarrels
its way to air,
    horns are all catarrhal sorrow

and here come those sour
familiar songs:
    lost girls, babies who disappear,
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