I never got here with my shoes
on. I could never find the path:
it is marked by bricks
a little more slippery, bits of grass
without stickers, but down the path,
long, long,
is a little home.

If I say you were under my skin,
please, understand, I painted myself
like a hallway: doors here, here.
I come home when the sun
leaves behind silence, and if you
come, take off your shoes,
I am spread beneath you
and I am the doors, all the doors
you pass into.

Slow on my feet, tender, but I come home
in the presence of the Holy--
In the House of the Lord
past the dragon,
through the middle dreams.
Walking softly, letting shadows stretch
long, long, are you with me? I am back
at your feet, and the doors stand
open.