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POETRY BY:
Steven F. Klepetar Tealeaves Tealeaves in the mud, subtle
shapes and signs – hissing cat and an owl hunched
on a rotten branch, two wolves resting on a mountain
slope, a leafy pond, butterflies circling thistles
in a meadow after rain, a cold and disembodied eye – your nearly empty cup becomes a cauldron of desire, a molten pang stirring you awake, winding
through sandy sheets long before solstice light seeps
between ragged edges of derelict cloud. Along your nearly silent and once familiar street,
night mists rise. Houses float and disappear.
Oaks open their woody mouths to wail with no sound, even the sobbing grass wishes to be released. It
is not prayers you feel surrounding your breath, inching
along your hot skin’s nerves, but spells. Somehow
you have climbed through the ear of night, tumbled
weary and confused among phantoms lingering on an
eyelid’s edge.
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