Who could be angry when little
girls dance in the shadows of a
king's stone chair? Where will
he put the wind of his voice, his
chest full of smoke and air?
Will he laugh at these small vibrations
on an earth he believes he owns?
Are we looking for a miracle here,
a pair of eyes glistening with crystal tears?
Who will request the violet sea of relent?
Who will watch dolphins breaking
waves near the horizon in knife-sharp sun?
Our questions tumble to earth in a rain of words
and again the thread has slipped from our grasp.
Where in his hall will he cradle the sound of bells?
Winter creature in a dream
of cold, yoked to my
un-detachable name, that long shadow
in the useless evening sun.
How it sticks
to my heels, how it rubs
against rough piles
if I could manage a run on this slippery
ground, that slithery
shape would follow, wild
and mocking, sliding up sheer walls, gnarled
trunks of iron-gray oaks, light and hollow and empty of sound.
Steve Klepetar teaches literature and creative writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has appeared widely and has received several nomination for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. His latest chapbooks, both from Flutter Press, are “My Father Teaches Me a Magic Word” and “My Father Had Another Eye.”