Knocking On A Door

A sputtering radiator, speaking in tongues;
TV is on and the light is fading
in late afternoon as it comes
through the window like a bird.

The reason for us to speak in tongues
like the radiator longing for the light
to fail entirely is not to fade as the light does
but to shine brightly after the night falls,

for all around there is darkness aplenty;
their radiators hiss and chatter as if
nothing’s changed — but here’s a black snake
in a white house, there’s a fire

all around like darkness itself, and
fools and traitors burning through
all the barriers and borders.
Half the land doesn’t know

there’s a fire set upon them. Half
again don’t believe it when they are told.
A small percentage sits up and takes notice
and the fire breaks around them.

All the scent is of charcoal, a hint
of skin and flesh, but no matter;
memory will do. Memory and hope
for a new one coming, coming

up over the hill — sputtering like
a radiator, hissing and clucking like a bird;
occasionally knocking on a door
waiting to be opened by us, for us.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T