The slow-grained slide to embed the blade
of the key is a sheathing，
a gliding on graphite， pushing inside
to find the ribs of the lock.
Sunk home， the true key slots to its matrix；
geared， tight-fitting， they turn
together， shooting the spring-lock，
throwing the bolt. Dactyls， iambics——
the clinch of words——the hidden couplings
in the cased machine. A chime of sound
on sound： the way the sung note snibs on meaning
and holds. The lines engage and marry now，
their bells are keeping time；
the church doors close and open underground.