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.