The Brink

A cardinal's whistle breaks off at the closing door.
The ends of my hair are tugged, then replaced behind ears.
A shuffle of four feet sweeps from here to there.

A threshold is crossed, a second door shut off,
shoes unlaced, a face held in framing palms,
buttons winging off ripped threads.

Quilts loosen under a heavy pulse,
and without rising, I extend my shaking hands.
The final threshold will push them back down.
A bowing stage, the last track, the strongest broken thread.