No one comes.  House lights burn

in the empty street, white oaks

shudder in all these silent yards.

She stands in October moonlight,

leaves swirling at her feet, opens

her eyes to another gravity’s

magic pull. How strange to feel

that pale yellow bath on her cheeks

and painted smile.  She drinks

the darkness as an owl floats

by, its alien face round as another

moon dotted with black

stars, rush of wings and from

somewhere breath and a beating heart. 


Maybe you’ll meet her some night

on the moonbeam road, when

careless dreams push you toward

the margins of a tired life.  Feel

your own swimming  arms pull

a body through surging sky. 

Don’t fail to greet her with your

eyes at least, or if your tongue

unfreezes, speak to her in the unlocked

language of your weightless blood.

She might take your hand

then, lead you home to secret

pools where wolves lap

at secrets with their scarlet tongues.


by Steve Klepetar  


Steve Klepetar teaches literature and writing at Saint Cloud State University in Minnesota. His work has received several Pushcart nominations and his chapbook, Thirty-six Crows, was recently published by erbacce press.

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