First Afternoon
There are a million pebbles beneath my feet.
A small riverbed sleeps eight feet in front of me,
The wind circles my small chest.
First Morning
I rise to a full forest and a hungry belly.
A long haired father with three caught fish,
two Trout and one Steelhead.
First Night
Limbs of Red Cedars move at night.
I hear the Tree dream particles come out from underneath us.
Father wakes me and feeds the fire outside,
The trees then move again.
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. Â 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.Â
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.Â
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 Â
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.
Even now, as my fingers
Turn incised in time,
As my eyes fall upon
The dusting of artificial
Sweetener some careless
Hand forgot, I wonder
On the involute silence
Of empty space.
    A never
Silent silence. Bespotted
Always with the stigmata
Of an omnipresent hum.
This hum is not unlike
The hum of industry
But for its source— its source
Lies hidden deep in the earth,
Or perhaps it originates
In my very skull.
This hum, this ceaseless
Murmuring, I think at times
To be existence itself
Sighing without end.
From here I can almost see
The opening doors and feet
And hands descending like
Locusts. Foreknowledge needs
Not prophesy. And I hear,
Now as then, the lingering hum
Deafening always and louder
Only in silence.
by Dan Pizappi
