Where is my consolation,

boiling sky? Your lightning lashes

while my griefs accumulate.

Your thunderheads roil outside

and within my head, a jumbled

image of confusion. The

rod is splintered, and the staff

points aimlessly in mute direction.

 

That table you valet’d is

littered with stale vows, gnawed

rinds pecked clean by crows.

If nourishment’s to be it must

arise internally. I’ll compass

up despair and hive on till

 

windblown horizons and fresh

harp strings ease my storm-dazed eyes.