The world has key to trodden paths,
Inside grass-worn, snail-travelled,
Between tall trees capped by a sky.
Prepare to be lost and overwhelmed
By silver fish wiggling a confusion.
Keyword is a rusted flange in dust.
Take it into your hands and dust it
And its brown shall vanish in blue.
Surrender to a confusion of worms
And feel cold iron keys in your fists
That shall pin you down to a place.