Classic Poem

Did the door move, or was it always ajar?
The gladioli on the table are pale mauve.
I smell pale mauve and blue,
Blue soft like bruises—putrid—oozing—
The air oozes blue—mauve—
And the door with the black line where it does not shut!

I must pass that door to go to bed,
Or I must stay here
And watch the crack
Oozing air.

Is it—air?