by Richard Dinges
Each closed door,
windows draped, shadows
dropped from dim
bare bulbs, harbors
hope, a frame around
what might be beyond.
light seeps through cracks,
cast dust motes in shafts
that shift in lazy
currents. My eyelids
droop to complete
images, fill in color,
open portals into
the other side
of dreams where no
keys are required
and a youthful
body stands waiting
for me to run.
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