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12 keys Phi Beta Kappa poem, Yale University, 2011 Like​an​island,​a​key​makes​a​door.​In​the​surge Of​its​mineral​clarity,​seas​come​unbound. Though​an​arch​curves​together,​the​keystone​will​stay Braced​in​gravity,​locked​by​immensity,​wound To​a​temple​in​air​by​the​spiraling​play That​could​tumble​much​heavier​forces.​What’s​found Past​the​musical​notes​that​cascade​and​converge In​a​key,​past​the​tock​the​tick​carries​away When​it’s​wound​by​a​key?​There​are​patterns​that​merge Meanings,​silent​until​we​code​them​open, Clued​to​us​by​the​random​knowing​tribes: Carvings,​letters,​hands,​faces,​symbols,​stars. Each​warm​friction’s​vibration​circumscribes One​more​seat​in​the​clearing​where​we​are Gathered,​circling​a​home​we​can’t​describe. What’s​the​word​but​a​word​that​can’t​be​spoken? Who’d​tear​pleasure​out​past​life’s​iron​bars? Where’s​the​use​of​a​code​that​won’t​be​broken? A​ring​of​keys​hangs​like​a​question​at​your​side. You​move​through​the​answering​darkness​like​a​key, While​windows​of​moonlight​branch​down​the​catacombs And​rustle​each​prisoner​into​mystery. Each​lock,​like​each​room,​is​alone​till​the​opening​comes; Your​ring​reaches​one,​then​another.​Liberty Repeats​down​the​corridor,​doors​pulled​open​wide, Exploding​more​showers​of​sweetness​through​the​combs Whose​locks​had​been​waiting​for​one​key​to​be​tried. ...

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