Status Updates From La puerta

I’ve cut myself off.
I can feel the place
where I used to be attached.
It’s raw, as when you grate
your finger. It’s a shredded mess
of images. It hurts.
But where exactly on me
is this torn-off stem?
Now here, now there.

The door swings open: O god of hinges, god of long voyages, you have kept faith. It’s dark in there. You confide yourself to the darkness. You step in. The door swings closed.

Unfortunately this too didn't really reach me? I've been moved by Margaret Atwood's prose, but the poetry felt somehow distant to me. I'm trying to make an effort to read more poetry to like it better, but I'm not sure it's working for me.

What I do: I see in darkness. I see darkness. I see you.

Anyway, my dearest one, we still have the moon.