Even near here there are places
not on maps, still not far
from this great porch;
Keen and Lovett wrote about such
but this ain’t Texas.
The house is pointed perfect
to catch yearround reflections of the late sun.
And then when I repose at night I try
to hear something spoken from those teeming places
a message a language a contact,
it’s never forthcoming but
my birddog hears them.
I hold her with straining leash
fibers groan from her quarantine.
She knows she seems more in tune
if not at peace
with living and dying in a red sky.
While chosen of the night in its
keywords are hidden and remain.
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 limited edition, short Selected Poetry has just been released through West Virginia College of Law.