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HOW THIS WORLD NEEDS KEYS

I stand outside the door to my office,
Having just locked myself out, my keys in,
And think like a thief: how solid the door,
How solid myself, how this world needs keys.

Inside, the phone is not ringing. But inside
My head someone I desire decides
To call, to connect us with his hand.
His need worries facts. Who will answer?

Within, the keys stay themselves on the desk.
The books work inside their covers, going on
As usual with their harlots, plots, tulips.
In that other room in my head, the hand

Lifts the receiver. He begins to dial.
The window, its plants, and their shadows
Around the phone become a fiction of
Themselves which cleave the air only in my mind.

Waste paper lies candid in an idea
Basket and the very pencils inside
My office are not. Without a key all
Grows holy and conceivable as wish.

Like the fond tongues of late afternoon shade
Which lick light off grass, off the rooftops,
Nothing creeps the blue walls. The three pictures
Repose in entirely blank absence.

My office disappears before me as
A meadow goes away before deep night.
All that is left is desire with no keys.
His hand finishes dialing. I answer.