WEBVTT

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So not so long ago,
I lost my keys.

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And when you live
in a huge city,

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this is a crisis of rather
enormous proportions,

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in part, because one wants,
in the city, to get inside.

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To no longer have
an inside to get to

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is a really traumatic thing.

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You have only the outside
world, which is too much.

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And keys lost in
the city, are gone.

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That's it.

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With very few exceptions.

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This is called, "No Orpheus."

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"Dropped in a midnight
taxi's backseat dark.

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Slipped through that
coat pocket hole

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you'd always meant to mend.

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Tumbled down a street corner
drain into an underworld

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where no Orpheus may
ever find an exit.

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Lose your keys here, and face
the sheer, unyielding wall

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of irretrievable.

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What won't be found again.

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400 years in New York
City, how many keys

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gone head over teeth into
the invisible's huge pockets?

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Whole bronze reefs, tips and
ridges gleaming in the murk.

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Atlantean, these
brassy, useless shoals.

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The rooms they opened,
immaterial now.

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Doors that swing on no hinges,
open to no one's touch,

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not even a poet stumbling
back from shadow land.

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Keys, more of them every blessed
night and day, once and always,

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gone.

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No poetry in that, he thinks
or else there's nothing else."

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So that's a poem
about what one might

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do with the inevitable losses,
make poems out of them,

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make some kind of art
or artifact out of them.