from 12.11 notes (just one. a long one. not actually a milosz ‘note’)

November 13, 2011

A LOCKSMITH |

I feel the locks inside me that grate and grumble in metallic thunder when they are opened: city gates being rolled and absorbed into the heavy walls. Sometimes the key is in a lesson: when you learn it, a lock pops open and you discard the precious weight. Sometimes it’s a series of keys and they’re hidden in dreams or left behind in stories. Someone left you a trail of paper, a trail of bread crumbs, a trail of blood. A trail of themes or a code in an alphabet or in the accents on a language.
Some locks will only start groaning and creaking open when you stand in the exact spot you are meant to, at the exact time. If you listen, sometimes the locks will send you hints on a wind.

Some, bound by rust of millennia, don’t want to be unlocked now.

There are locks simply set for the future, as on a timer. When you pass the year, they go off like an alarm.

And some locks, from just this week or last year or 5 years ago, are not difficult to open but you neglect them because it’s easy to forget what has just happened.

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