One Sentence Poems

Steve Klepetar The Quantum Poet If a tree falls in the forest and you write a poem about it that gets taken by two journals, does it count as one publication or two? Steve Klepetar believes that the answer to the conundrum his poem describes is “Yes and no.”

Steve Klepetar Ten Below On winter mornings frost webs the window in a subtle mesh and silence rises toward glass, a great fish snared. Steve Klepetar writes in Minnesota, where fishing is a metaphor for everything.

Steve Klepetar Stone Cutter and Cloud Tonight I am stone cutter and cloud, a man with empty hands, who stands before you spinning with sleep, wearing the ropes of day, dressed in thin, ragged shreds of dream. Steve Klepetar is like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir.

Steve Klepetar Dear Leonard I know I said the tea and oranges came all the way from China, but I actually picked them up at Whole Foods. –love, Suzanne Steve Klepetar is like a bird on a wire, like a drunk in a midnight choir.

Steve Klepetar Diamond Sky We found ourselves beneath a sky we couldn’t recognize, one made of waves undulating in the night like the diamond belly of a snake, until we heard sirens calling us to huddle in the basement of our fears as something passed over, a shadow without shape that swept us out to […]

Steve Klepetar Incongruity On the neighbor’s car four decals: a stick figure humping the word IT, a screw up against the letter U, a skeletal hand with its middle finger raised, and from the cross, a mournful Jesus staring down. Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota, next door to some neighbors who will never […]

Steve Klepetar Mille Feuille I’m looking for someone along this deserted street, near a café where once we ate the best Mille Feuille I ever tasted, but she’s been gone for hours, long after all the trucks rolled away and  busses gasped and vanished in the heat. Steve Klepetar is still looking for the café […]

Steve Klepetar The Iceman I found a man buried in the ice wrapped in furs and his mouth looked so small beneath that hood— a cherry blossom floating on a black pool. Steve Klepetar lives and writes in Saint Cloud, Minnesota, where he tries desperately to hold on to his dwindling hydrogen atoms.