Mark Mitchell. Homage to H.D.

Homage to H.D.

 I pound on the hermetic door.
 An echo, heavy as lead, rolls away.
  
 I knock again and the ghost 
 of your voice floats out from under it,
  
 brushing my face, light as a spider web,
 light as a mother’s hand out of Ancient Greece.
  
 —My angels are my angels. I feel this,
 I don’t hear.—They are not yours
  
 to play with. I sent my own Helen
 to Egypt so I could keep all her secrets.
  
 Now go.  I stare at the black door.
 I bow thrice to you, thrice to Hermes. I flee. 
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