Michael H. Levin: Poems and Prose
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.
First published on-line in Such An Ugly Time (Rat's Ass Review), April 2017