The McKinley Review Magazine

A Certain Form of Blindness

By: Steve Klepetar | Posted on: March 2018

“light fingers the house with its own acoustics”

 

 

            C. D. Wright

 

 

Footsteps on the floor above.

Outside, in the snow, the world

is nearly silent. Now a truck

passes quickly on the main road,

heading over the mountain

toward the quiet farms.

Two mirrors face each other

in the bedroom. Anyone looking

is captured a thousand times.

Children notice this with glee.

They dance to infinity, hopping

first on one foot, then the other,

in praise of motion repeated

endlessly. You need to write

this down, find paper, record

what you see. What you hear

is mostly silence, just the furnace,

its occasional hum. Even the crows

haven’t appeared today, though

a deer came down through the reeds

to drink. The pond remains silent,

in its bed of snow. I have a theory

about all this. It involves dice

and milk and a certain form

of blindness on a darkened street.

Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. His work has appeared worldwide, in such journals as Chiron, Deep Water, Muddy River Poetry Review, The Muse: India, Night Garden, Poppy Road Review, Snakeskin, Voices Israel, Ygdrasil, and many others. Several of his poems have been nominated for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize. Klepetar is the author of fourteen poetry collections and chapbooks, the most recent of which include How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps), Why Glass Shatters (One Sentence Chaps), and o filho da bebedora de café (The Coffee Drinker’s Son), translated into Portuguese by Francisco Jose de Carvalho.