7/19/2018 0 Comments Poetry By Steve KlepetarVapor 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.”
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