A direct hit this time.
Like a Halley’s Comet
coming in 1960 and going out now.
Twain would be proud of the old girl
made of cypress
impervious to nails.
But the river is deadly up
to a line taller than God.
The shallows breathe heavy
stripping palm trees.
The windows are all blown-out
blinds they unfurl to a sky submerged
where gulf water joins
up into the air like being
freed at last
like forever
like gone.
Ward Abel’s work has appeared in hundreds of journals (Rattle, Versal, The Reader, Worcester Review, Riverbed Review, others), including a 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.
