Your keychain and old watch,
dangling from a belt hoop, suggest
Proust on love: space and time made
directly visible to the heart.
But get a better timepiece,
sort the openers from the metal
that unlocks nothing, and I won’t complain
of metaphors untimely ripped;
for thievish seconds need counting
and real doors need moving through,
despite the irresistible storehouse
of stories that attend on you.
from Silver RosesFind it in the library
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