A mechanism far too finely-wrought

When you rusted shut completely,
I heard it. From the other side of the world,
that squeal as your gears clenched teeth -
one last revolution now forever
seized in place. You always were that kid
who needed more; more dream-road metered
for your tread, more copper wire to gird
your tangly nest, more long run-up
to make the biggest leap. More oil to sweet
your keepings-on. Most of us believe we fall
wide open to just one key, that in this chest
we nest a mitred egg, some chambered trick
of boxes, that somewhere jerks the honey
of the thumb that perfect-fits the notch - 
that absence revving hot and frantic
as the engine in the throat. You kept a heavy ring
all jangling full of almost-right. I know you tried
and tried each one, in turn, to turn
the things you never could unlock, and tried
to stop the valves like I am now. All this water,
all this salt, it does seep out and in
as fast as we can test the fit. No chance
such human weather wouldn’t still a thing
that ticked and ticked, that took its time,
from every mark, to keep the needle
desperate in the red.