What does he know of humid nights
or birds tangled in the dark?
Sleep, that brother who sailed beyond seas,
has sent a message wrapped in a new flag.
Somewhere a flute lays down a melody
lighter than a lover’s fingertips.
Should he keep to his bed, or once
walk out in the strangeness of his yard
where flowers have vanished and birches
lean perilously toward the roof?
There’s wet grass, the sting of broken twigs
and the owl’s ghost face, crumpled against black leaves.
Steve Klepetar’s work has appeared widely, and several of 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 (Flutter Press) and Return of the Bride of Frankenstein (Kind of a Hurricane Press).