Steve Klepetar

MY FATHER HAD ANOTHER EYE


A strange one, beside
his own, endlessly turning
beneath the threadbare
brim of his turned-down hat.

Not a scolding eye, nor a searing
eye, not an eye that wept or turned red
nor an eye that drilled through rock
to where the coolest water burst

but a gray eye, like a winter sea, an eye
of empty beaches and ache of heel and calf.