by L. Ward Abel

Morning dims, brightens, rain starts to pond  
at the mountain’s base. Sunday the green, these 
creases divide our great sloping continent  
into chutes, they spill directions named by us 
but the compass doesn’t care. 
Limits, edges, endings, starts that mirror and  
fail to tell a seed from fallen timber run through 
my thinking, hover, land, dissipate, return  
to leaving, all in the name of steam. 
Where the knelling stops, south of roses 
north of stones, I find comfort in my  
breakfast and its lack of a seam 
with the full-blown night.


L. Ward Abel lives in rural Georgia and is the author of two full collections and 11 chapbooks of poetry, including Jonesing For Byzantium (UK Authors Press, 2006), American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (erbacce-Press, 2016), Digby Roundabout (Kelsay Books, 2017), The Rainflock Sings Again (Unsolicited Press, 2019) and his latest full collection, Floodlit (Beakful, 2019).

Two Civil War Poems
A White Horse & A Bl