L. Ward Abel, three poems

Tranquility Base

It was July 1969 down on Lake Sinclair.

Outside was a night as loud as Mombasa.

Inside the astronauts came down a blurry

black and white ladder, likewise the old TV.

My crewcut years then at ten were just

a clutching of books near two-hundred

year old nesting-oaks. I lurked at the edge

of reddish water and miles-dark hardwood

under yin/yang skies. Later in that cabin

I tried to sleep, maybe channel astronaut

dreams but settled on the hawk

dreaming floodlit over the boathouse,

her shadow pouring out to find me.


Small green rooms. Large space. The doorknobs are no

match for an ocean twenty miles west of this old river-house.

It sits half a block off the channel and feels the pull from

the only moon we’ve ever known. In the morning she

finds her voice again in sweet-water-springs now black

with buried canopy. Only a few walls of the Tamiami

persuasion survive along old forty-one where even rust

goes home. But from a thousand hinges, tacks and rubble

of a pulled-down garage long gone on the property line

comes a bloom.