70

Through the Dark Doorway

But if I turn, if I question

through the dark doorway

where no stars shine—

if I dare turn and look—

is that terrible act the passage from this world?

Or, having glanced without,

can I wrench my gaze

from that fascination of Gorgon-fact met

and return to the ambiguous world I know?

How reject ensorcelment by the death I carry—

that all creatures carry—

the worm gnawing under the fingernail,

the black nothing swirling like bees

around and within the sunlit crocus?

For I have named it my name, that which is also I.

Mind is our one certain reality.

The mere imagining that our atomed world

is matter sustains us.

Even if we lose belief,

cannot shut out from our attention

the Pythian doorway agape

in each sun-bright being,

we need not lose the passion to believe, imagining belief.

Then dare ourselves to walk the viscous city streets

or to reach out a sworl of hand hoping

to touch some credenced object.

I shall turn then, and look.

I will will the earth to hold steady

beneath my mattered feet,

will this doorknob to be hard, material,

and my tentative hand reaching,

And I shall pluck this crocus to take along,

as to a friend.