by Martin Vest

He could only walk through
one side of a wall.
Doors were a myth, he said,
invented by those with options.
He said—
I must leave this place where
eyes shed tears at my leaving.
He worked nights, odd jobs—
felt his way through the dark
while his neighbors slept
until his hands became
what he was looking for.
His boots were sewn from an earlier him.
They would go anywhere, he said—
Anywhere except back.
Anywhere except beyond the place
where new boots are required.
He said that during certain moons
there are no ghosts—
only dances without dancers.
On those nights he became that.
He said there are no doors—
only knobs turning slowly.
He taught himself to creak.
He taught himself to slam.
He learned to be the myth
that splits and joins
two eyes at a keyhole.