by L. Ward Abel
A landscape view, but sky
takes up three-fourths
of the sweep.
A slow-burn pit—its A-shapes
of variously named oak—looks
resigned here.
I’ve placed fragments around
the ring—old quartz, granite
unmoved
by my brevity—they yawn
at eons, sleep through
spans.
Still I live longer than now
still burn under
my skin, clothes.
I leave few remnants, carve
nothing that lasts, char only
paper
in pursuit of pyrrhic gestures
not to gods but to angled light
that only sunsets give
for whatever reason
whatever reason else
I can’t imagine.
[L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Worcester Review, Whimperbang, 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.]
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