The Third Day

(The dead spaces between them
thickening through the night as
he'd walked the gallery while
she sat in her room, sewing
story into tapestry…)
At dawn's first watery flare
he'd clumped in, thrown the circle
of keys onto her lap. Yes,
he'd be absent for a while —
business, a trip to the coast,
specialist doctors for his
war wounds — or something like that…
(In short, a sojourn nearby
with a prostitute he ran —
refuge from this old deadlock
of winning and not winning.
He'll go and literally
walk all over her and take
her gold. Better than sea air.
Her name is Esmeralda.)
"But this key…' (does he really
want her to know? — it's too late,
even now he's fingering
its mordant gleam) "this key here —
don't use it, on pain of death.'
It's reddish bronze, crosses her
lifeline. Outside, the fountain
bursts through blocked valves, spills rusty
water over a frieze of
broken chrysolite dolphins.