Steve Klepetar

Between the Lines

When the last riders left, there came a hurricane

of tears or maybe that was only sky’s last howl.

So many important figures dancing their way

through yellow grass, such an explosion

of passports, impressive credentials lined with lead.

Oh, radioactive sun, gas blazing through

the stratosphere and nothing  to offer but chewing

gum and tape.  You could say we were caught

with our pants down, the unready and the blind. 

Humming birds bored us with their incessant chasing

games, invisible walls we never could break down

and poison keeping us away from every other door. 

So many nights alone, and really that made us laugh

in a tickle of furnace heat, popcorn sticking

between our teeth and the glowing TV on. 

We might have been lying on our sides or studying

lines between all those familiar words, that time

of year and love is not love which alters where it

alteration finds.  Speak friend and enter, speak your

mind, toss every filter in the melting ponds. 

They tell us spring is coming, that winter’s heart

attack is near.  Three girls tiptoe on a tightrope

far above these walls where moths flit, glinting

like teeth, white and empty as frozen mouths of ghosts.


In Tired Streets

Nothing left to seep beneath your clothes,

no substance or bleeding on the ground.

These are the days of open hands

and wounds that bind us to desolate trees,

last days of song.  The weddings are empty

now, bereft of wine and mirth, the dancers

all have hobbled home in broken shoes.

The instruments are gone, the floor ripped

out, even painted walls shiver and melt.

Nobody sane is left to gather crumpled paper

or fling the brightly colored rice.  Hurry home

and listen to the wind, with netted fingers

gather up the rain. Your face betrays you:

nothing left to play with or defend.

Dogs run in tired streets, dawn busses groan

through blinking lights as if the immigrants

returned and all the planted seeds had drowned.

 

Jonah

I’ve been swallowed again by the giant mouth

of a baleen whale, swum a hundred yards

in the company of krill.  Oh, I’ve been here before,

clinging to a shattered mast, watching the huge

stomach churn, waiting to be saved by God’s hand

or whatever force ripped my body back into heaving

swells.  It’s not that I’ve fallen back into mischief

and lies, but I can’t give up the sea.

Green arms enfold me, pungent salt puckers my skin. 

She has been the grave from which I’ve risen

again and again, the womb that has given me birth.

Gulls screech above me, I own nothing

but the sound of surf.  My prayers beat against

lighthouse rocks. My ship circles and sinks, leaving

no wound, no bloody sore on water’s calm and healing flesh.




In the Heart of This City

In the heart of this city, a man

gnaws on a piece of lead.

No one lends him ornaments

of brass or shields him

from dust or ash. His teeth

are sharp  and he has been here

a long time growing his nails

and beard.  He has a tongue made

of ice, eyes vivid as violet flame.

Some call him lover, though his nose

isn’t right, while some have  named

him for boulders and scree. 

On the narrow streets he scrabbles

for gold.  Though he owns nothing,

his feet are nimble and light,

his ladder stretches through clouds. 

When you walk through the park

with hands buried in your own silent

fog, be careful to mingle your shadow

with his frozen heart.  He swims

in the river, a shark who has lost its way.




Words I Would Like to Call Back

These are the words I

would like

to call back, the ones

spinning around outlines

of your grave

the ones that tasted like salt and oil

that pinned

your body deep in wounded earth

that fell in a wash

of bloody stars, that left

bite marks on your outstretched palms

words I juggled, blue

and red

and green, that buzzed

in my ears like chainsaws

invisible words

I tossed and caught and tossed

again until

fingertips turned numb

and wrists ached and the power

went out and all was silent

even the wires, even the little dead birds.