Ocean
Look how the joining
of land with sea
or its attempt
displays in loops.
Slight edges
gray to off-gray
and the point where
who can tell
whether the sea reaches up
to become
or the sky reaches down
for the other,
both bound by approaching
the immensity of planets
and blessed by
such thinness
of air.
Curvature
Thicker than water the rivers
speak beneath sound, groan
even lower tones. There a view
sweeps wide in three-sixty to
where curvature leaves behind
horizon. The blue sings unified
with all green below, and while
some of us may lose our way
the miles-deep film of air
never does.
Low Tones
Low tones the ocean
speaks it groans too,
its green belies liquidity
as if trees were just below.
Oh wind slightly west of south
with Cuba down beyond
the long curve that turns blue
to black burning cool
unconsumed.
L. Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Worcester Review, Riverbed Review, Honest Ulsterman, others), including nominations for a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and he is the author of three full collections and ten chapbooks of poetry, including American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), A Jerusalem of Ponds (Erbacce-Press, 2016), and 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.
