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 reascend, 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.