Gateways: Rustic Door
Running along the marble floor.
Where does the tunnel end?
Where does it go?
How long? Who painted the fantastical ceiling?
The drinking Godesses, eyes that follow us,
cascades of grapes, foams, ivy, apis apini hymenoptera
We stop panting beside a rustic door, slatted, worn gauze-cracked,
yellow eye old.
Nothing to its bones.
We push through and step.