Sometimes I see the doorways

Sometimes I see the doorways to the other realms.

The doorways are a darkness against the dark.
Blind spots in the periphery.

I see them but can’t reach them.
Either they are near and small
or far away and vast.
I suspect the latter but fear the former.
What good is a doorway I cannot enter into?

Each realm is different.
Once the door is gone it’s gone forever.
Does the realm go with the door?
Are the realm and the door the same?

Beyond one door I hear the shriek of a bat
bay of a hound
sound of water disappearing into the earth.

Do you know what this means?
I laugh though nothing humors me.
I laugh the way a wolf growls:
a warning of violence.

And I pace around my life like it’s a room I
cannot get out of.

What gentles the sun?
Oxygen.
And me?
Well… the end of oxygen.

One day I will be close enough to touch them.
The doors into the other realms.

Split me in two and I’ll go to two realms.
My voice will scream with two voices.
I’ll speak like a mynah bird,
in precise but incoherent pieces.

It won’t matter.
I have no need of making sense.
I am talked over by hungrier voices
every day, all the time.

The doorways to the realms elude me.
They exist only for a minute. Maybe two.
Once, four minutes.
I watch them.
They have gravity.
Or heat. Entropy?
Dark warps around the dark.

They are shaped like coffins.