The Dance
            Grandpa, you’d better stick to poem writing.
                                                                                       -Lizzy Klepetar
She dances in moonlight
on a night when nobody sees.

She dances on her toes,
leaping across floorboards,

spinning around the center
of her own slight weight.

She dances the secret dance.
Her face clouds with mist.

Here in the silent house,
she dances with shadows and snakes.

Her arms are made of glass,
her hair is on fire.

She dances in darkness,
holding communion with stars.




Fine Deliverance


Here a dancing pilgrim, spinning
smiling man leaping the lap of dawn;
there a cunning skein of trees, dogs
in moonlight, tiny spiders, light
as thought, dangling rhythmic designs
along a cavern wall. What would Li Po say? 
Ah spider, if my huge eye could see
deep into your little eye, what might
we learn of each other’s souls?
Your industry, my lazy, indulgent veins,
webbed red from wine and tavern smoke?
Words winging like lost birds, or kites.
Oh, fine deliverance, blatant music, bells.
Fire on the distant edge of night.
Who can paint the wine of sorrow
in its oaken casks, or mouths puckering
in surprise, or the shining eyes of mirth?

​

The Harp Player


Someone has pulled him
from oblivion with a few
hard lines, rendered
his black, choppy hair

and bristly beard, eyes
pressed shut, open
mouth, even the suggestion
of a loose, wretched coat.

Music falls from his strings
like rain on an August field.
He plays as the century rolls
in a long cloud of smoke,

fingers calloused, music
beautiful as his haggard face.​