Three Poems

Recurring Dream of the Revolving Door

The revolving door
Paddled its flat hands through space, like a clock,
But widdershins, orbiting the floor

At the pace of an adult’s brisk walk.
You were four, or very small,
And prone to race or balk,

And skittered ahead into the tall
Diminishing wedge
Of air and light, leaving me to push a wall

Between us, both on edge.
Before you, a hectic street, and strangers,
Behind you, the verge

Of panic, yours and mine, the dizzy dangers
Of propulsion, staying still, worst, turning back.
The body’s anguish is its angers.
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