Steve Klepetar


We skim across Bluefish
Pond, a couple of Jesus
filaments stretched, snapped
in long, thin coils.

We can do this now, we can hold
hands, reveal
ourselves as passionate
above cattail and reeds.

We lick moisture
from humid air. Even dead
we suffer pain.
When we want to let
them, our bodies
glow. We penetrate the moon.

Sometimes our eyes peer
out through its pale
globe, side
by side, staring out toward brilliant
splash of stars.
We assume the form of owls

apparitions with white wings
stretched in moonlight,
grim red eyes. Never alone, we circle
dark pines, bob
into your headlights, her face, mine
two stabs of terror seconds before dawn.

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Steve Klepetar teaches and writes in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. He is excited about reading with the Russian poet Yevtushenko on November 5. "Ghosts in Love" was originally published in Ygdrasil.

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