Various and Sundry Poetry

all the doors in the world

maybe it's just midnight speaking,
this first, quiet hour of a new day,
when nothing is being asked of me and I have yet
to ask anything of myself, my body exactly parallel to the earth,
to an entire solar system, all magically
bowing to the laws of magnetics, the tides, the solstice,
everything beyond what I can change or destroy or impede,
and how in this powerlessness, this incapacity, I can see more clearly
all the doors in the world, like wet petals, yawning open.