Keys
What is lockable is the rapacious,
the blood scratched door,
an already gaping mail box.
What can be opened is the plunder,
the clasp that cracks.
We need keys
for the iron hasp of blood,
a skeleton to pick open
the red mouths of jugular jaws,
to break apart the deadbolts,
the chain-linked sorrows
of dead-end days.
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