A LAKE AT MIDNIGHT
by Steve Klepetar
Look, how a god returns
to his wrecked temple
- Agha Shahid Ali
In this museum case, every stone fragment
becomes a mirror, a tongue frozen into long
silence. Is that the face of the drunken god
riding backward into a new land, his hair
wild and twined with leaves?
I heard him sing last night in a bar downtown,
his neon voice exploding among bottles and taps.
He held five dollars in a sweaty fist.
His face sent light beams out into the ragged
night as if he meant to save us all.
Once I came upon him by a lake at midnight,
moon casting ripples on the dark water’s face.
His arms were bound with vines, his cold eyes
empty as a cup drained to the dregs,
his lips bloody and torn.
Then he was gone, and frogs began
their song again, a chorus old as mud,
and leaves pulsing back to life in April air.
Gyroscope Review - !31