All the Things That Never Happened

Papa Legba picks the locks.
I'll throw my lot with Legba.
I'll be Papa Legba, not
That I could know what he thought
When, on his slow crutch, he caught
The small songs of shifting rocks,
The tumblers of the cosmos

And translated turns to keys.
I'll be him because I please
Mad improbability
By fooling with locks like these.
These are all the things I dreamed
When I controlled the dreaming.
No dream knows the gate's release.