Bob Hicok

Three green doors 
in the falling apart shed.
I put one on the stream 

and wave as it leaves.
Someone will knock 
miles from here, and go under,

and live in rooms 
of water, take your boots off 
please. I tie another 

to a parachute, walk it 
to the field where grass 
tries to touch the sun. 

A wind comes, makes love 
to the silk, the door 
forces its one eye 

open, jealous. The third 
follows me 
like a little brother.

I run and it runs, 
running doors are funny.
To its lock, I hold 

a bowl and tap 
that disguise for a hole 
with a spoon. So this, 

this is empty, I say, 
and this, this is empty 
it says, then all day, 

its whole life 
it complains, I am hungry, 
so I shoot it.