Doorposts

At times the doorposts are
same as ever
in their push and their pull,
and the stars, and the
night beneath them,
and the causeways and the
hills, and the ways
to shores.

And the distances are
same; the
dim light of cities
traversed, the pathways of
impossible light across the
empty hallways, and the
sleeplessness -- the
maps that gather with
dry leaves at the
treeline near the old roads.

And the figure kneeling
in the waves is the same,
and his ruined grip,
and the fear that coils
in the old jungle; dreams
poured over silences
that go dead-leaf thin
in troubled dawns.

Planets still race over
horizon faster than Orion.
Each vastness remains,
between the doorposts in the
house where you live.