a clutch of silver keys hung down out of the lock above a round silver doorknob 

 

                                                                                                                                                     their silver is

clean   bright   immaculate   as if never bearing the smudge or oil of human hands

they seem content

as content as most inanimate things appear  unconcerned  unperturbed  unperplexed  virtually untroubled 

like the smooth brow of a babe

 

and each key has its responsibility to unlock or free that thing they were separate of but made for as human beings are often to other human beings those true keys unlocking that which is locked away from others seen every day but failed to be recognised their intricate workings their tumblers exquisitely turning wanted terribly  then  like the sun the warmth of a new day spreading through them a passion turned On   if On was right to ascribe to it 

On

Fulfilled

Enmeshed

almost the satisfying machinery of fluidsex   the slick oil            desire

we  unthinkingly  unknowingly  either offer or provide that thing that poets write of  painters capture in their watercolors oils acrylics  that sculptors hew from coldstone  coldmetal  livedlined wood

causticly taken for granted

until the key is lost or dead   the locks rust     unpenetrated     unturned

                                                                                                                                                      their silver is

clean   bright   immaculate   against the heavy black steel security screen door 

it is open a third wide

 

a white painted door beyond it is closed

a wind picks up

under its breath a dwarf orange tree in a large glazed ceramicpot beside the doors moves lazily          hauntingly

its leaves spangle their slivered shadows on the keen edge of the security door the dull white face of the front door

the keys hung in the door once leaden and heavy and hanging straight down begin to flutter like a chain of white honeysuckle or pale lilac flowers mutate under the wind become petals lax then curl fall to the threshold gathering

like brittle shavings or clots of ash

their lives sucked away

only one key remains

stiff in the lock

                        undisturbed    unmutated

the steel door creaks

  

  

1040,  Thursday,  19  11. 15

1319,  Friday,  20  11. 15

dreamt