Somewhere within the murmuring of things
that make no difference—aimlessly playing,
drifting in the wind—a loose door swings,
banging against a wall; the piece of string
that held it shut has blown away. Delaying,
somewhere within the murmuring of things,
crickets and tree toads pause, listening;
now they go on with their shrill surveying.
Drifting in the wind, a loose door swings
in widening arcs. Each rusty iron hinge
creaks in a different key: each is decaying,
somewhere within. The murmuring of things
wells up—the quickening thrum of wings,
the pulsing, intersecting voice swaying,
drifting in the wind. A loose door swings;
no torch, no adventitious thread brings
meaning to this maze, this endless straying
somewhere within the murmuring of things.
Drifting in the wind, a loose door swings.