Tag Archives: Steve Klepetar

Li Bo Rises

before darkness drains from the boundary of sky. His breath comes slowly in the room’s chilly air, so he dresses quickly, tiptoes out into the silent street. There he sees dark forms of trees gently swaying to life, feels the … Continue reading

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Li Bo’s Wisdom

He tells of a letting go, with eyes trained on broken blue sky on the black filigree of leafless oaks on wind whipping a tarpaulin which covers a woodpile pressed against the house or a white door’s midday glare and … Continue reading

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Li Bo and the Woman Clothed in Gold

It’s hard not to behold the trembling of the veil that slight shimmering at the edge of sight, as if the world’s covering could be grasped and pulled, revealed as glassy surface, a polished mirage. Last night, in the moonlight, … Continue reading

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Li Bo and the Owl

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 … Continue reading

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