by Steve Mueske Issue: Spring/Summer 2019

We are standing like birds in the trees.


The searchboat's one eye sweeps the water below.


We are moveless in the glass moment. Neither in


the dream nor after. We refuse


to be crows. The light is gestural:


a query. It commits to the idea


of the camera, admits a certain pragmatism


may be necessary. We are a human number.


When we lift into the air, it is already February.


We form an eye.  When you squint we do not


disappear. Your hand is at your brow.


Either you've seen this before or have not.


You will climb the hill when the path appears.


It is March. You will look back. Looking back


is a gesture, like light. Like film. You will step


into the enfolding dark and disappear. It may be


a dream. A vision. A drug to help you


forget. A story to help you


remember. You might be a refugee.  


You might be one among many, having come


from the same country.  We might be


your family. We might be


all that's left of yourself.

Steve Mueske

Steve Mueske is an electronic musician and the author of a chapbook and two books of poetry. His poems have appeared in The Iowa Review, Typo Magazine, Water~Stone Review, Verdad, Crazyhorse, The Massachusetts Review, Hotel Amerika, Verse Daily, and elsewhere.