Youíre on probation
now until night
seeps in

drawing claws across
the sandís white back.
Youíre on probation

until wind
forgets your name
How unusual to trail

gulls across this churning
sea with eyes
that burn through fog,

with fingers weaving
patterns in the fragile air.
Could you have eaten

coals or found them
blazing on a bed of grass
and ferns,

or would your long walk
have ended with nothing
but the sigh of flame?

Until they carve sins
across your naked
back, and light returns

to find your mouth
round as a singing childís,
you have nowhere to go.

They wonder if itís silent
in that corner where you stand
or if the radio screams you home.

Steve Klepetar

If you have any comments on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be pleased to hear from you.