The key you have not lost

The key you have not lost

is there between those spaces,

not by or in, but flanked between

here and there, living like a fugitive

on your skin. It is a prelude to our

memoirs, the text of a poem fused

with nectarines, an exploration

through Copper Canyon, visions

of Haiti’s angels licking my ears,

a hypnotic dance on sands

matching the colors that mesh

upon your hips, an experiment

we refuse to put down, an invitation

to cross the doorway of the home

I no longer occupy.

The key you have not lost

is not the manual for a digital

camera, or calendar entries

for next month’s readings. It is not

the Popular Mechanics article

you wrote to put food on our table,

or a classified add on craigslist.

It wants to be the bungee jump

into the pangs of a deer in heat,

the obituary of bolted doorknobs,

or a listing for all the vacant walls

on which we'll scribble our love graffiti.