My Raincoat Opens Doors for Me
It holds a door open above my head.
It’s a door into the sky.
The raincoat enters before me,
as a man through revolving doors
at the Waldorf Astoria enters the past.
My raincoat can say I love you
more than technically possible
or wise in pine cone and French, in
dialects of peoples not yet invented.
It says this in the language of smashed
lamps and presto, the light reassembles.
There is another door, and another,
and there is only one me and one
raincoat and the peonies of doors that keep opening.
