My eyes are clear in this partial-day.
I can hear the deep murmurs of Monticello,
words too low to be heard. But I hear them.
The fallen towers, still full of lights, are dashed.
I recognize beginnings.
I recognize endings, too; things, events that should’ve
been avoided, things so unwelcome as to be called “things,”
If not for the breakage, there could’ve been a heaven on earth,
if not for disunity and wounded hearts and the need for revenge
and biology and limitations. I have heard walking in the fields;
I heard it last night. A wandering revolt of fear and reaction,
of turning of twisting, it bakes from a fire and gives off no heat,
no light. It lies as a lozenge waiting for rain to give it purpose.
I feel cold today behind walls. They could be mountains or wide
oceans or deserts that burn. But these walls are paper holding
faint writings, load-bearing words, the only thing between granite winds
and our own beautiful flesh.
L. Ward Abel, poet, composer and performer of music, teacher, lawyer, lives in rural Georgia, has been published hundreds of times in print and online, and is the author of Peach Box and Verge (Little Poem Press, 2003), Jonesing For Byzantium (UK Authors Press, 2006), The Heat of Blooming (Pudding House Press, 2008), Torn Sky Bleeding Blue (erbacce-Press, 2010), and the forthcoming American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012). A short Selected Poetry has just been released through West Virginia College of Law.