“Sleep, Words, Noises” by L.Ward Abel

pendora magazine


Those words that come when I’m half fading

will never be taken down. Soon the eyes

filter away infrared and the green spectrum

exchanged for characters.

Like first real sleep in a hundred days

those dreams can blind you. A color teevee

a hovering off-white clarity soon gives way

the taste of paradox

still fresh when I wake. Then, my own tell-all to myself

roams a noisy head. I toil in the holy vineyard.

I sing in a secret place and wait for rumbles

prequels to quietness.


Lo my dry land, dusty forks in all the roads

around here neither choice appealing, both

directions drop lower to diminished rivers running

backwards in the New Madrid fashion.

Sure enough here at Dragonfly it’s too far from

the coronations, from Scone where patterns

happen only in the big rise-and-fall of things.

But not in the teeming simple face of


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