Fob

This isn't a key on a wire,
the light refusing to catch
its eyelids like burnished butterflies.

'String me along,' it whines,
caught in a stilled gelatinous
sunset of gameplay.
It's dubious, coquettish, it flirts
a pretence that it's a fulfilled promise,
a copper kiss,

a myth, a trick. 'Look at me,'
it says, 'I'm a key
to that open tupperware box
full of neatly folded sins
and a banshee twist.'

This isn't a clever ruse to unravel,
or a telegram, or a time-travelling
device, or an installation
tripping along in high-heeled gallery shoes.

It's only at dusk when moths escape
the open mouths of virtuous toads
that you feel the cold slip
of an empty brass circle, a whisper
to all the impossible spaces
which might, one day, let you in.