I was asked to--
I was commissioned to write a poem unaccountably
on a locksmith shop.
So I thought about that for a while
about the nature of locks and keys
and there seemed to be a connection.
This occult machinery.
This hidden engine for opening doors.
A connection to what one does when one tries to write poetry.
The way-- there is that kind of meshing of gears.
And then I began to think about other things far more carnal.
So it's in fact, this is a poem about nothing
to do with locks and keys.
[LAUGHTER]
But it retains a connection of the title,
"Wedding The Locksmith's Daughter."
[LAUGHTER]
"The slow-grained slide to embed the blade of 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."