by L. Ward Abel

Matted morning eyes sore 
from standing on shoulders of balancing giants 
streaked with sun 
          and a carpet of frost, 

the descendant blinks to clarify civilization, 
the things lost numbering more than those retained 
and the remembered exceeding the truth 
          because of wine, ego  
sloth 

          and he blinks again when birds collide 
with his windowpanes 
          fooled by wreaths 
or columns that hang them 
          or a trick from the clarity 
          of glass 

          and he regains a balance enough to fly 
close to the ground where all the bones are, 
where all songs derive from all prior versions 
          buried but carried on 

in the helix strand of settlement 
          of force, of dialect 
of death and love

and comes to rest here eyesore still
          where he lives and always will
his footing anything 
          but 
assured.

---

L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Galway Review, Worcester Review, Main Street Rag, others), and he is the author of four full collections and eleven chapbooks of poetry, including Green Shoulders—New and Selected Poems 2003–2023 (Silver Bow, 2023), and The Teller’s Road (Bottlecap, 2025). He is a retired lawyer and teacher of literature, he writes and plays music, and lives in rural Georgia.