Every key on my ring lost its purpose
  The houses (yes, two) moved away. 
  Every key on my ring lost its purpose
  even the one that didn't open
  anything. It used to hang 
  from her neck and wink at me, a friend,
  while we leaned in locked doorways
  and her hair caught my workman's knuckles,
  while I felt her moonlight sink
  in my fingerprints. 
  When I asked her what she wore it for,
  what she'd creak open with it, she held
  her blush inside a laugh and dismissed 
  me with the truth, the pretense that
  when she said "her heart" she wasn't serious
  because her mouth twisted to the wry side
  and her eyes were closing doors. 
  I bought her a locket, open lock-plate,
  hung it on a chain and slipped it
  on her neck. It wasn't long after, then,
  that she handed up her silver-plated,
  copper-showing key. One night while I slept
  she thumb-tacked it on my wall. 
  When I saw it the next evening - I woke up
  before the dawn - I lay beneath it,
  revelling in the pillows, in the linger
  and the ghost that was her scent.

  Now I have lost my houses.
  And my countries. 
  The door in which that latch-key fit.
  That little key wound up my watch
  until I misplaced it, so foolish,
  so careless. I would leave all of my lost
  within the fog if it meant I'd see the plate
  that fits this key, that's worn its silver color off
  by hanging at her chest. And I'd leave the key
  if it bought me one minute of her sweat
  and perfume, of my wild girl. I wouldn't even ask
  her touch. I just need her to stand
  a foot from me, to smell her hair sail in the breeze.