does it knock [in ironicpoliteness] then smash itself onto the door and pound itself in taking theinitiative and forcing me to feel its potent yet loving fingers break intomy cocoon and glide all over me despite my shirking away?
will it stand there,peeking through the window, sliding its fingertips down the glass hoping theglow of the finger press will shine through my eyes-pressed-closed so i can sensethe rich luminosity waiting forme to open my lids, and then the door, and then my heart?
or will it quietlyremain outside my door for decadesif necessary calmly because itlives outside time anyway knowing itísuncertain whether iíll ever even open the door or even figureout thereís a door there to open because noone ever said thereís something so rich to believe in since childishdreams of ideals are probably only dreams anyway, right?
or will it only geta chance to walk halfway up the front lawn and while iímtoasting an English muffin will I getthe sense of its nearness, its overflowing energy and essence of rich richlove then just dropthe butter knife and sprintthrough the house out the frontdoor and leap intoits embrace as soon as my reach allows?
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