Who can read this and fail to swoon at the beauty of the imagery?
Wedding the Locksmith’s Daughter, by Robin Robertson
The slow-grained slide to embed the blade
of the key is a sheathing,
a gliding on graphite, pushing inside
to find the ribs of the lock.
Sunk home, the true key slots to its matrix;
geared, tight-fitting, they turn
together, shooting the spring lock,
throwing the bolt. Dactyls, iambics-
the clinch of words – the hidden couplings
in the cased machine. A chime of sound
on sound: the way the sung note snibs on meaning
and holds. The lines engage and marry now
like vows, their bells are keeping time;
the church doors close and open underground.