Like a supplicant, I stand at your door,
timid hand raised to knock for entry.
In this light I seem naked,
all artifice sacrificed to desire,
and my hand trembles
as it sounds upon wood and brass.
Would you let me in, a poor traveler,
who has nothing to share with you but stories
of distant visions seen on the horizon like
the mirage of an oasis as seen by a dying man?
Would you have me sit at your table for a space,
and drink cold water from your cup?
I may be mistaken... perhaps you are not home,
but lost upon some foreign road far away.
Maybe from a distance, you hear the knocking
but you mistake it for the drum in your ears
or a desire, longstanding, for home.
But this may be my own imagining,
and you wait on the other side of the door,
book of poems in hand, communing with the Almighty,
and waiting for the next traveler with which to break your bread.
Beloved, I am your next houseguest,
here for an unknown measure of time,
knocking for entry.
Open, but do not weep for my coming and going--
all we are given on earth is this measure of time.
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