About halfway past seven just as
the northeast sky lit up orange
from waters aloft
I looked right and, distracted,
thought of all those million souls
then flying in waves
towards Carolina, paper fragments,
moments though scattered still clamoring
for a snuffing-out like flocks of keys
from pianos or like escaped moths
bee-lined to the truth they know
and received only by such light.
the northeast sky lit up orange
from waters aloft
I looked right and, distracted,
thought of all those million souls
then flying in waves
towards Carolina, paper fragments,
moments though scattered still clamoring
for a snuffing-out like flocks of keys
from pianos or like escaped moths
bee-lined to the truth they know
and received only by such light.
|
L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Worcester Review, Riverbed Review, and others), including a recent nomination for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and he is the author of three full collections and ten chapbooks of poetry, including his latest collection, The Width of Here (Silver Bow, 2021). He is a reformed lawyer, he writes and plays music, and he teaches literature. Abel resides in rural Georgia.
|
