The Keys to a Relationship

Is my heavy chain like nothing I cared

when grace was my keeper of secrets?

That clear block in home and blood,

where my work was an ocean of layers.

It might have been – morning cases in rows light,

impressive sinews flexing reasons out of sight,

and more and more hopes gone inimitable,

terrible, completely unknowable – parts and prints

fracturing what is right, what is breath. But what is it?

An idea, imagined where a stone might feel soft,

and yet lost, a bringer of gifts weighted with cost

but not beckoned; a figure adrift 

- and the bridge that moves like rust.

Without effort, against one common flagging,

or a wave somehow dragging down the trust?