Art by Norman E. Masters
Ten thousand visitors knock at my door each day they pass through, [to the extent my door is open] leave their calling cards on the hall table. At night, when the lights are out & my door is shut I go through these cards and my soul remembers. In the land of erotic dreams, we are lovers some of my daytime visitors & I and in our joining, I am remembered we are become one flesh and I see that this is good. What of those who come in, through my open door pitch their tent in my mind sing their songs, from far off lands exotic fragrances in their hair if I give myself not to them: neither do I receive them as lovers and so they go and how express their grievance [in ways devious & dark.] No scorned lover leaves gracefully mischief trails his departing footsteps [scorn is in the heart of the one who feels scorned.] Must I keep my door fastened tight, against your many visits or shall I flee to the inner desert, trackless & visitorless.