A Warm Key

A brass key lies on the pavement by the gatepost. It was not there when you came in. When you pick it up it is warm all the way through, as if someone had just let go of it.

Your thumb goes into a worn place on its head and fits. On the shank, stamped small: VII.

Up the block, on the bench at the bus shelter, someone has laid candy corn in a spiral, points out, and a line of ants has found the end of it.

Behind you the house stands with its shutters closed. Somewhere inside a door settles a quarter inch in its frame. The key is already cooler than it was.

Go back through the gate and put the key in the seventh door. Found in a drawer “A thing is allowed to be two places at once if you let it fold.” this page is not cut yet; the path bends to Take What You Need
Lay the key where it was, for whoever comes by next, and walk up the block. Found in the bin “A thumbprint in a color you have never seen on a thumb.” this page is not cut yet; the path bends to Congress Avenue Ends at the Sea

The book · Colophon and credits

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