Visiting a poem

The long dirt track
that leads to the poem
ends in a circle drive
of black cinders
with the poem's windows
looking down like leaden eyes.
Its door stands agape,
dumbfounded to see you here,
to find itself in such disarray.
But you alight and,
despite the poem's protestations,
enter, laughing and saying,
"We're old friends."
In the shafts of light
inside, there is a dark
sofa with a floral print
and a red silk scarf
thrown across the back.
A jade colored dressing gown
lies on the floor
like the outline of an accident victim.
Trays are scattered on tables,
a desk, the floor. The tattered
remains of dictionaries, travel books,
newspapers from the last century,
scientific texts, manuscripts describing
alchemy long ago reputed,
parchments known to be sacred,
but written in a forgotten tongue.
Bits of blueberry muffin.
Empty coffee cups
with a brown sediment,
that reminds you of long-dried ponds,
squat like sentinels
beside the guard towers of glasses,
lit by the silver of asti.
You hear an old music
from somewhere. Drums.
A wooden flute.
Something else.
The door to the library swings
open silently
and the muses of this place
enter. The dark goddess
with her black eyes
and pounding breath..
the white goddess,
with her hair like a silver
waterfall and her patient eyes.
You have not entered the poem.
The poem has entered you.