Steve Klepetar


This is not a mirror,
it’s not a lake

turned on its axis,
it’s not the sky

drained of color
on a winter’s day,

but a door
to a thousand

lakes, each one
spread out

beneath a ring
of pines,

a door to the sky
you can open to race

at the speed of light,
your body both

particle and wave,
drinking the milk of stars.

Steve Klepetar agrees that “an aged man in but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick unless soul clap its hands and sing for every tatter in its mortal dress.”