Instructions for Opening a Door by Ian Randall Wilson Confrontation is always at issue. The foot not a leader, the hand a wagon to a world on the other side. I question my assumptions: Is Latin like a tunnel, Russian speech a car in flight? Does a scattered alphabet vault the sky? Honey, I'm home becomes a not so secret message of my dissipation. The Beloved once gone does not look back. I am prepared to lick the lintels if it makes it easier to get inside, to rush past the salt pillars of those who turned. I rap my knuckles three times on the wood of my raised panels. In the year of my isolation I have forgotten if I'm leaving or staying— either way, I'm asking to come home. © 2002 by Ian Randall Wilson. All rights reserved. Home