In Merciless Air
by Steve Klepetar



You shouldn’t venture
into fog, where a mountain’s
head rises,
a face

without eyes
an arrowhead jammed
into the flesh of sky.

It may be, someday,
that the world
will flip
to face another

sun, and you
the fish
choking at the bottom

of a wooden-ribbed boat,
your eyes smoke
and glass,
your desperate lips

pouting
as you drown
in the merciless air.





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