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.
Copyright © Persea Books 2010
Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc.
on behalf of Persea Books.