The Doors

Passing within the doors
like eyelids open there,
the closet truths
we should not watch.
Grief seeps beneath
the doors like shutters
where the family weeps.
Within the photos
glimpse the mouths –
a rictus like rust upon
the doors that grate
the hinges of reason.
Remove your shoes;
impale your coat.
You should not stay
but cannot leave,
the doors like curtains
scream of placid
places elsewhere.