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Steve Klepetar
Vintage
Always I am climbing out
or climbing in, as if
the universe were filled
with strange windows
opening whenever I push
a sash, poke my head
into some new weather
roiling beyond that square.
And then I tumble as my
lungs fill, not with water,
not with air, but a substance
racing in my blood, new
wine pressed from a vintage
ripening on blue hillsides
where purple stars bulge
heavy on their threading vines.
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