That there was, above all, a key that fit. That the door was a door that could be shut
against the night & all its eyes. That the road beyond the curve exists.
That inside the box is a story. That waking is sometimes a form of dying, & dying
the knowledge that winter is transitive. That the heart is a dream of return.
That in my hand is a fistful of buttons. That the river has its own gravity. That after
trying seasons, angels lay down their wings & sleep in the earth.
-- Steven Mueske is an electronic musician and the author of a chapbook and two books of poetry. His poems have appeared recently in The Iowa Review, Water-Stone Review, PoetLore, The American Poetry Review, Typo Magazine, Redactions, Radar Poetry, Verse Daily, and elsewhere.