Beneath
his right arm,
reliably
concealed,
depends
a knife
that
sleeps head down,
like
a vampire
bat,
honed
to that edge required by surgeons,
when
surgeons cut with steel.
It
is secured there with magnets
set
within a simple hilt of nickel silver.
The
blade's angled tip,
recalling
a wood carver's chisel,
inclines
toward the dark
arterial pulse
in
the pit
of his arm,
as
if reminding him
that
he too
is
only ever i n c h e s from that place
the
drowned girl
went,
so
long ago,
that
timelessness.
That
other country,
waiting.
He
is by trade a keeper of the door to that country.
Drawn,
the black blade
becomes
a key.
When
he holds it, he holds t h e
w i n d
in his hand.
The
door swings
gently open.
But
he does not draw it now.
William Gibson :
All Tomorrow's Parties
