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The Image of the Key

The image of the key, imprinted,
carved ceremoniously like an instinct,
like an infant’s first breath, a scream,
or the peeping frogs serenading the night.

There is a red door somewhere, or was it green?
The memory fades like snow in a midwinter thaw,
leaving only a puddle, and then it evaporates,
under the crystal sunlight of a goblet sky.

I dream of Amsterdam, though I’ve never been,
of Venice in Springtime when lovers ply canals.
I wrestle with Hercules in the waves of Gibraltar’s Straits,
and nightly pry the secrets Malmonides hides.

I hope for the silence that springs to life,
not the loneliness of Hell,
and at a distance I cannot measure,
I hear the morning bell.