by Seth Abramson

Seth Abramson

When the angelus bell was struck he came
down into himself again. Beneath the wars
of birds, lines were hauled
and men climbed toward the sky like spiders.
A week on the smoldering earth trailed him;
the waters waxed and waned
philosophically: church, politics. Love, self.
Somewhere notes were playing
that in time would be his heartbeat. But

not yet. The lines that held the world fast
were still the latitude and longitude of an Age.
His belief he was climbing
was still the longest tether.

Last updated July 12, 2015