The Ring of Keys

DRUNKENNESS, and heart, and work,
And truths to spend a day on,
I want to hear them strain and jerk,
These flat black keys I play on.
I have a key for anything
Somewhere on this crude loose ring,
Mother of every opening,
The ring of keys I pray on.

The wife of Bluebeard only had
One key and lock to haunt her.
One basement room her lord forbade,
One closeting to taunt her.
She let a simple locksmith rob
Her chastity and touched the knob
That brought the blood and brought her sob,
And let a doorway daunt her.

This hand, these fingers of chill steel
Embrace me in my mumming,
I make my rounds with this round wheel.
This eye that I am thumbing.
The rooms I walk are stark and dank,
These keys are anchors that I yank,
I roam and make their clumsy clank
Warn evil of my coming.

Nothing actual touches me.
I thrive on things that could be,
O Peter, Janus, kings of the key,
I know no things that should be.
It locks me in and out of life,
This crown with ornaments too rife,
This iron wedding ring for wife,
That never is nor would be.