Fence Door

If this moment were a tunnel I would shape it into a horn
each note a pole shift in minute time
like the gold in peripheral heat lightening
revealing the wreckage of the most distant
and obtuse recordings of Beethoven you ever heard.

For every color gleaned from ancient poetry
there is a bell tower and stained glass chapel
built on an old angry hill

where the vengeful Gods of the old testament
have their symbols and endless
empire upon the Earth.

If this moment were the wind in October
it would find a loose fence door to possess with
violent spasms and vent the spleen

of the world through the darkest
holy wood.