The door to silence
has a squeaky hinge
that scrapes across dirt
blown up against
its bottom half … buried.
With each tug at the door
the rusted knocker taps
back and forth
like a blackbird’s beak
on a window pane.
Finally open
to squeeze through
like air sucked in,
blown out to fill lungs,
but the door to silence
refuses closure.
Some people claim
madness between.