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