Steve Klepetar

It Doesn’t Matter

how deep the water, or how cold,
or the color of boats
sailing behind the orange moon,
or the timbre of voices you heard
last night in that dream of home,
or the many names on that hard,
white list of your dead friends,
or the delightful tang of apple
and peach, blueberry and tangerine,
pineapple and pear which haunt
your memory on the hottest days,
and it doesn’t signify that you
have hiked eleven miles today
or that you have two green sweaters,
and nobody cares if the grass
in your yard has sprouted a hundred
thousand dandelions, because even
in the most extreme cases, you will
stand before your mirror, stunned
by a face you once recognized as your own.

Steve Klepetar is waking up from hibernation, rubbing his eyes, and wondering how it ever got so strange.