The key you have not lost
The key you have not lost
is there between
those spaces,
not by or in, but
flanked between
the 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
of Haiti
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 doors,
or a listing for
all the vacant walls
on which we'll scribble our graffiti.
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