One day a door opens in the ground 
and you know this is every door 
you've ever read about in tales and fables. 
The animals watch to see what you do 
after you pass into the country beyond. 
The trees are full of birds; at first 
they make no sound, and then 
they open their mouths in bursts 
of rifle fire. A crimson line flowers 
where they used to drop in the bramble 
before the dogs came, and hunters 
followed. When you trace this wound 
with a finger, a curtain of smoke ripples 
and lifts. You're at the edge of a bluff
or the deepest part of a basin. The sea
must be somewhere, rippling with
an otherworldly light you could almost
touch—But when you lean out,  not even
a pebble of sound from your ear 
could possibly finish falling. 

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