Steve Klepetar

Hard to Know

It gets harder to know where to leave my eyes
in this house that never changes

where sky hangs in the windows and across the road
neighbors have built a fire made of ice and mist

or so it seems when I hang my head in the air
and watch naked oaks with their sullen

branches snapping in the wind while dark birds
settle on the deck rails and leave black markings

of their wings, a trail of gashes in the body of the day.

Weight of Skulls or Stones

Around the house a circle of skulls,
or maybe just stones bleached white

in the sun. Hard to tell if those are
mouths or shadows, or what wave

has flung them to rest among weeds.
Irises mass and push by a red fence,

blue and yellow tongues panting after
light. At night their silence feels

smooth as skulls or stones or spring
breeze among oaks. A house settles

on a high bank above a river made
of fog. In the window, tongues of flame.

Silence has the weight of stones and skulls,
a measure of shadows among clotted roots.

Steve Klepetar

STEVE KLEPETARís work has appeared widely. His poems have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net. Recent collections include My Son Writes a Report on the Warsaw Ghetto and The Li Bo Poems, both from Flutter Press, and Family Reunion, forthcoming from Big Table Publishing.

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