Cellar Door

It is dark and
waiting. Its warmth
is that of an open wound,
of the old air above hot concrete.
I would push through it and go
down to where the old woman
in my stomach sits
in the firecracker glow of the hearth,
stringing herbs dry as dust
up in the corners to hang for
lost souls to touch and feel finally
the hard road under their feet again,
the spray of the sea.
This is what this door holds.
And it is forlorn
in the dust ground
between the years
but beautiful in the cool
dampness of its steps
that lead far down to the very foundation
of things, where you can feel against your flesh
every little mist-shard that seeps
down through the elephant maze of black pipes.
When I press my body,
the hot sweat of my little brow,
against its dark grain, it whispers,
Okay
and I feel like I can melt right through it
to float on the still black waters.
I feel like dying.