A stone door, cold, almost blue, 
impenetrable, 
seems to stand between me and you, 
indestructible. 
At first, hesitantly, 
I start to knock, 
then, violently, 
pound at the lock. 
Flesh battering, 
strengthened by the agony, 
blood spattering, 
perhaps you want a scream from me. 
But solid stands the door, 
and you don't seem to hear; 
I'm slumping to the floor, 
starting to shed a tear. 
My hand, torn and scraped, is slowing, 
cold, bruised, crushed, and bleeding, 
movement, almost routine, flowing, 
to the uselessness, unheeding. 
Now, peeking from a web, of scattered flesh, 
is a skeletal hand, a claw, 
pieces clinging to the door, a bloody mesh; 
not standing a touch is not your flaw. 
And, finally, I see, 
even if I could reach, 
you'd never be grasped by me; 
maiming love's a skill you teach. 

March 27 & 28, 1985