the delicate pick, jointed
like a finger, textured the way you imagine
a cubist painting.
It has the name, true, but
its life and career depends on
a division, like an alchemist
with his heart spun in a crucible:
this side and that,
outside and in. Though the door is
mod-pop color coated,
like a child in rain, the fact
remains. Who would stop
and notice a locked door, if all
that it took was a turn of the handle?
But bolts and wheels--!
and rust resonates, with
a thick-and-silent click, like the setting of bones.
It names unspoken things from
our winter dreaming and winks--
that solid, adamantine block
the door hinges.