Out of Sixth Avenue, 
out of all its doorways, 
through which ugly women and ugly men 
        and glorious women and well-dressed men 
walk and stamp, walk and stamp, 
out of all the apertures of Sixth Avenue 
even ragged back doors in alleys, 
and gray exit doors opened once a year 
        for fire drills, 
and rooftop exits, 
and manholes firm in the street 
        lifted by men dressed as turtles 
        acting in movies, 
out of every door, even from every eye 
        and ear on Sixth Avenue, 
also from every ear on every pigeon 
        on Sixth Avenue 
something emerges, something emanates, 
because anything that has been opened 
        remains open, 
even the moon 
who opens every month 
        like a door, 
        so blood may flow through the 
        doors of women. 

Other doors in the sky are 
        always opening 
to let rain down and rain 
and doors on the earth open 
for the earth to drink. 
And trees have doors they see through 
        when our backs are turned. 

The Universe has many doors, 
        some large as whales and Ninja stars, 
        some molecular and secret. 
A door is an eye, an eye is a door. 
For a poet a page is a door, 
for a doctor the skin is, 
for divers, the sea is a door, 
and for dreamers the night 
        is a large black door. 

Why so many doors? 
Wherefore so many doors? 
Why is this Universe so spanned with 
        opening doors? 

You ask me, and your 
        question is a door 
        I step through to answer.