Sometimes my brain is on fire. Sometimes I write
and write as sun sets and mountains vanish again.
My fingers become a fleet of boats, sailing down
to the underworld. On this dark sea, waves toss
and roll. Stars dance on the roof of the world.
An old man sails with me. He is blind in one eye
and has been here many times, watching ghosts
flit in and out between ragged strips of cloud.
He speaks softly, though he cannot hear.
He has been hungry for a long time, and his good
eye burns. We drink together, some red wine
Iíve brought, and we nibble bread and cheese.
Sometimes we make signs in the air, sometimes
we sing, each our own song in a different key.
We are brothers, we are father and son.
We are strangers, finding our way in this place
without breath, without the bloodís mysterious heat.
If you have any thoughts on this poem, Steve Klepetar would be
pleased to hear them.