a prophet half brought down.
from the cross
a dangling martyr.
since one hinge broke
the heavy medievel door
flangs on one hinge alone.
one corner drags in dust on the road.
the other knocks
against the high threshold.
like a memory that nly gets sharper.
with the passage of time,
the grain stands out on the wood.
as graphic in detail
as a flayed man of muscles hwo could not find
his way back into the anatomy book.
as is leaning against
any old doorway to sober up
like teh local drunk
helll with the hinge and damn the jab
the door would have walked out
long long ago
if it weren`t for
that pairs of shorts
left to dry upon its shoulders.
