In the palm of her hand between trails of geometry and ravines and lines that could map the surface of Mars The rusted key idly waits for a destiny unrequited. No, neglected, pushed into the corner of a dark chamber in a hall of chambers and dark corners in her mind. The rusted key was mine. The lock, an intricate series of oiled steel pins poised and positioned, waiting for the mission, a call to action… that never comes. Maybe they are waiting still… a memory of something kept until… until…? They are aging, once slick and smooth pistons separating oil into constituent pools of water and sludge in a dark chamber in a hall of dark chambers in her mind. Nearly a perfect pirouette of legs and charm she slips into the arms of a kiln-fired body essentially a ceramic toy she can smash with a word –a sword, a single cut to shatter an illusion of courage. She could make him drink razor blades. And the fool would never know her final name. But bliss drives ignorance and as you know, when we ignore the evidence then the evident hides in a dark corner of a locked chamber in a dark hall of dark chambers pushed from the abuse of razor blades and illusions held in her mind. Like all great magicians and mistresses, as they dance in a bright ballroom the ceramic boy and this pirouetting marionette pretend they are heroes of a kind in fine gowns and trussed up columns, He says, “The light is the moon.” She says, “Then it is the moon, dear” and as they sway from one end of the hall to another, he never notices the rusted key, slipping from one hand to the other.