There is an upper room, they say,
Whose doorway lies in this one.
The doorway must be hidden—
Because when once or twice
We found ourselves above
We didn’t know the way there.
The key that fits the door, they say,
Is simply being Here—
But “simply” seems to be a key
Whose grooves are subtly cut.
Some say they have a key to sell
But others—and we seem to trust them more—
They say we have to make the cuts ourselves,
With bloody fingers, in our very metal.