Imagine a filigreed keyhole
the shape of a corset
or hourglass
and a silver key,
the handle a circle
head notched like an axe.
(Word-sharp,
did it cut off
the corset’s neck, perhaps?)
On one side
blood is dripping
into a stained, glass shell.
Fine white logic
sifts in the other
a radiant children’s pile.
Chaos blooms into order,
and order implodes
to a flash.
Form is flow,
and energy, matter
the keyhole’s inseparable halves.
Both sides
lock up one Garden
we wander and wonder in.