Le Clé
Gold pocket watches with stunted
dials, or compasses pointing due west.
Capture me too by some other end,
or perhaps you are lost, tired of aiming.
Do not know me beyond you.
I will blink in cracked hand-mirrors,
see a splintering self made whole
again by distance. Rows and rows
of copper keys without locks.
They have the bow and the blade
and teeth. Most are skeletons though,
all barrels and brass spread
over sunny cloths. The remains
of a forgotten half of a secret
that cannot even remember
what it once loved so well.
These things, idly admired.
Where the dandelion clock
of purpose sends its woolly seeds
to land wherever they will.
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