Door

Door

Matthew Carlin

For the thrall of it, the colors of the
cathedral dome—their taste.
Chipped, my amulet, my ark of the
covenant, these little doors carved in
my palms. Inside and within and
stumbling into, lips pressed to
glass—to light. I have my blindfold.
To know a space by the way it
touches back. Body of the mind
—where two or more are gathered.
I was always the same question until
rain gathered in my hands. Which is
to say: I knew you without knowing
it—this dark, now, a kind of passage.

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Matthew Carlin
Poet

Matthew has previously appeared in Pittsburgh Poetry Review, Vinyl, and Bodega.

Photography by Luis González