Fumbling for the door knob
like a drunk
with numb fingers
with a drunk’s forgetful patience
taking so long to realize there’s a blindfold
and after that
the hall is still dark
the door is just a broken closet
not going anywhere.

It wasn’t Gretl’s bread crumbs leading here.
There isn’t a witch.

How long
and how slowly
do you have to feed the blind spots
to end up …

and then
and then

sliver of warm light
touch of smooth skin
the way the morning
tousles the seafoam sky
over the city

people drive to work

This is where hope lives
between the freeway lanes
in the garden against the chain link
in the old hispanic woman
who stops watering
just to look at the rich blood
of the flowers and
the diamonds she has put on the leaves.

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