I beat and pound and beat and pound
on that door, that ash oak door.
Just as I turn my heel to leave it closed,
the door yawns open, and pulls my head back,
as if it hooked my ear on a string, a silk string.
Inside the light is bright, but clouded,
and up above I see a ladder with angels,
but instead of the heavens,
I see the wrong wife,
frowning with guilt in her eyes.
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