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.