Steve Klepetar

Vintage

Always I am climbing out

or climbing in, as if

the universe were filled

with strange windows

opening whenever I push

a sash, poke my head

into some new weather

roiling beyond that square.

And then I tumble as my

lungs fill, not with water,

not with air, but a substance

racing in my blood, new

wine pressed from a vintage

ripening on blue hillsides

where purple stars bulge

heavy on their threading vines.

 

 

 

 

 

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ISSUE 93
Rhinochimaera

 

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