Out of Bed by Steve Klepetar

I thought I heard you singing last night.
You were out of bed in the cold
and your voice surrounded the room.
I opened the curtain and there was snow.
It had piled up on the deck and it lay
on the pines along the pond,
and the naked birches seemed to reach
into low clouds. I knew this couldn’t
be true, your singing in the night
and snow gleaming even beneath the fog,
the gray sky. You were telling me something
about the way things end, how quiet
everything will be once moon and sun
fall away, and sky folds up, wrinkles the stars
to a single brilliant point as the final note fades.



Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and The Pushcart Prize.