AFTER DAVID
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.
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.
Version first published in Such An Ugly Time (Rat's Ass Review), April 2017