Broken Doors

Vintage mirrors
and shining bars
the rapid tap of
plastic cards
a chop and hiss
breaks the taste that hits

peppers that point between
lips and panic
your hands
vanish and a sneeze makes magic

the system of believing
that which we see
the framework under which
we give our lives to disease

toil and slave
and yet the rules
were never really the same

a welling of well worn silk
garments floating on updraughts
the wind pleeas with the weather

the broken doors will never open
reveal the pain of day
that moment your hands
return to the ends of each arm