Member-only story
T.S. Eliot is Dead
a poem about thresholds
On Sundays when the seasons change
I get up early and make the coffee.
I open the windows and watch
the sun stretch, let the light fill
these rooms like the sound of the surf.
If I turn my head just so, I’ll hear
the morning’s first tourists walking
their dogs along the beach far off beyond
the skyline of houses where I can imagine
the ocean’s endless searching across the sand,
between the rocks, as if whatever answer lies
land-locked could be released
with enough persistence. If it finds anything
worth knowing it carries it away.
I remember what you used to tell me,
how I used to believe it the way you believe
a nightmare might come true if you
accidently cross the threshold during the day,
right foot first. I remember how hard I tried
to go through every door left foot first.
How impossible it is to never forget.
