The Door

I'm quiet like a cigarette
The door a rap within its frame
Against the weighted wind that plays
Beneath my bare misshapen name.

Aiming at what I think is true
I'll miss the mark of solid place
And break apart from edges out
Collapse the noise of human taste.

And you
Remain
A fix, a hat
Upon
A hook
Until at last
The door
The frame
The good
Bye shrug
Accepts
The wind
But not
The past.