Under the River
by Steve Klepetar


we found
ourselves , frightened
less of red
eyes and mud

or merciless
current’s drag
than of muddled

sound and slow swirling light.
“Here is the road,” we
thought, “into
consciousness
here in the

dessert of the mind.”
We imagined horses
then, broad brown backs
and black
manes and our own

flight into
Egypt, those back
roads like veins.
Like Valkyrie we swept

down into corn,
our mad
song, our invitation

wild and loose
as hair
in the wind, our
long

descent, day
slowly diminishing
in a sweet
parabola
of summer storm






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