Blue-Gray Door

corner room4

By Tobi Cogswell

How far does he lean
over the precipice?
When he wakes
and grabs at the lifeline
of vine and ivy above,
who will be left
shell-shocked and bitten,
dashed in space?

How many secrets
are one too many,
shadows telling of moss-scented
shells, wine, words that bring
gryphons to their knees?
What bears repeating
behind the blue-gray door?

Windows clouded and yea high,
the cracked symmetry
of sturdy boards—
no one can rescue the unseen,
though life and all living
is written in the lines, as if

the face of the storyteller
wove such aching fables,
you can almost believe
people were meant to be
broken.

Previously published in Turbulence, December 2012

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