Doors open to different rooms -
so few I have been able to walk through -
their dark stain added to by the grime of
pushing fingers themselves coloured with
age and wear, and pushed the same way
by all these years where there has been no
movement. I stand to watch and it is as if
each opening is closed by anticipation.
And so it is by looking through this,
what might have been is in the distances.
It is only a moment, and swinging to
each shuts and shows the marks as patterns of
not going but moving here and there
and always in the stasis of this stare.