The poetry of Steve Klepetar

A Cup of Dust

Hills curve in the distance, a series of petrified waves.
Your eyes are blessed, even if your vision is blurred.
Your fingers are blessed.
Take the cup of water, the cup of honey.
Take the pot filled with flowers and soil.
Today you will walk until you can’t take another step.
Tonight you will lie in your own bed.
You will ache a bit, maybe wake once or twice
as the hours tick by.
In the morning there will be coffee and fruit,
maybe some rain.
Take the cup of sand, the cup of starlight,
even the cup of dust.
This is your body, your drink.
Whatever you imagine, whatever your fingers grasp,
this is what you are in the end, here on this suffering earth.





An hour crawls by, winding itself
around the trunk of an oak.
Such a slow dance, seconds
stretching out in the grass,
expanding like small balloons
before they flash and disappear.
This is how afternoon eats itself,
one bite at a time, ravenous
but slow. In the valley between
green hills, the river glides south
beyond sight. Crows sail through
the air, crash onto high branches,
gaze down, cawing complaints, until
at some silent signal they leap away.

Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize.

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