Doors

I keep opening these doors
every day, and like Alice, they shrink

but the skies on the other side are
Turkish delight. I can sense them fill
with grackles and pigeons, swarming

the statues I’ve erected to memories
that shift with the phases of the moon.

And the funny thing is, each time
I fling the handle wide, expecting another wooden sarcophagus,

another feast of splinters, instead
I’m greeted with a handful of glass,

a tire swing sundial indicating noon
and a statue of Pygmalion and Galatea consuming each other like ouroboros.

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