Neighbor, tell me a story, tell me of a man & his ruthless flute, a ruthless flute that plays little blue hornets. I am afraid of hornets, but go on, say something about the flautist, with what virtue he plays, to what audience. I have waited off & on for a little pep in my step, & if the hornets hurry me along then let them do so. I could stand with a suit of little blue hornets. I’d wear that buzz wherever I would. I’d say there was a man with a ruthless flute & whatever is the matter, who the hell are you & why do you care.
Red Cape, Yellow Mantle,
Violet Tail, Blue Feet,
The perfect body does not seek a bird of paradise. On pace, the body rides ellipsis, the red carpet of ellipsis. The bird is an afterthought, a landing craft. A white astronaut steps out of the afterthought. Now that paradise has arrived, there is the sickness of infinitude. Wherein white astronaut. Wherein tether to dimension-less. It must be that an emissary of Los Angeles is both paradise & spacecraft. It cannot be that the candent starlet waves to the universe, steps lightly, disappears.
New poems from L. S. Klatt have appeared in VOLT, Harvard Review, The Iowa Review, Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, Phoebe, American Letters & Commentary, and The Common. His latest collection of verse, Sunshine Wound, is due out in December from Free Verse Editions (Parlor Press). He currently is the Poet Laureate of Grand Rapids, Michigan.