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.