Out of Sixth Avenue, 
out of all its doorways, 
through which ugly women and ugly men 
          and glorious women and well-dressed men 
walk and stamp, walk and stamp, 
out of all the apertures of Sixth Avenue 
even ragged back doors in alleys, 
and gray exit doors opened once a year 
          for fire drills, 
and rooftop exits, 
and manholes firm in the street 
          lifted by men dressed as turtles 
          acting in movies, 
out of every door, even from every eye 
          and ear on Sixth Avenue, 
also from every ear on every pigeon 
          on Sixth Avenue 
something emerges, something emanates, 
because anything that has been opened 
          remains open, 
even the moon 
who opens every month 
          like a door, 
          so blood may flow through the 
          doors of women. 

Other doors in the sky are 
          always opening 
to let rain down and rain 
and doors on the earth open 
for the earth to drink. 
And trees have doors they see through 
          when our backs are turned. 

The Universe has many doors, 
          some large as whales and Ninja stars, 
          some molecular and secret. 
A door is an eye, an eye is a door. 
For a poet a page is a door, 
for a doctor the skin is, 
for divers, the sea is a door, 
and for dreamers the night 
          is a large black door. 

Why so many doors? 
Wherefore so many doors? 
Why is this Universe so spanned with 
          opening doors? 

You ask me, and your 
          question is a door 
          I step through to answer.