Poetry By Steve Klepetar

Vapor Trails

It’s only us, on the cusp 
of sleep, lost in sagging 
heat. We drown in our bed.
Here in the furnace of night, 
we peel back the only skin 
we ever need. A shadow
brushes past. We slide out, 
naked, free from breath 
and thirst. We drink the wind. 
We spring into air, flutter 
around the porch light, then 
sail across the dry yard, 
leaving vapor trails 
as we vanish into dark trees. 




Red Barn Road

Wind Rises.
Birds scatter among birch 
and pine. 

Thunder in the distance, 
lightning where the river 
winds south
past the iron bridge. 

The heat breaks. 
Now rain lashes the house, 
whipping young trees 
which bow and bend. 

In the street, dark water 
reflects a streetlight’s glow.



​
Green Flame

On the bridge, 
a woman leans 
against 
the railing, 
stares out 
at the tangle 
of woods on the far bank. 

Once she tiptoed
above a waterfall, 
agile on slippery 
stones. 
Her features 
were lost in smoke, 
her hair loose in wet air.

Her eyes burned 
like green 
flame.
She waited 
for velvet night, 
speaking 
only the language of birds.

​

Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires, in Massachusetts. His work has appeared widely in the U.S. and abroad. The most recent of his fourteen collections include “Why Glass Shatters” and “The Coffee Drinker’s Son.”

---