This Gift of Waiting

he waits for what becomes

of time's undistinguished

before-and-afterness lined up

ticking ignored little sections

further miniaturised into still smaller

points through which he waits he waits

clarity like stainless steel cold to the

touch ignored this gift of waiting

in all the minutiae slowed to noticing

events' detail parading processing

for a reason to transpire to pass

to happen and then.

In the green corner

where sunlight only freckles

there were barely the lines

of her still darker lips red

against that ivy smooth

in and of itself objectively

perfect; I could hear

the high meadow hear

a springing would be river

like flashes like history.

East Coast Sound

City gates are in my thinking

and walls open as if they

never were. The interstate

continental wide its red tail

lights give allusion to blood

coursing both ways, the truth

approaches lit face passengers

so very afraid of the dark. I can

barely discern an east coast sound

from a player as she passes. And

it's just rained. Even birds live here.

Page 3

© Copyright, 2015, L. Ward Abel.
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