“Koreshan,” Ward Abel
Today I went to the new
cuts through a holy heart
the haunt of bugs.
O Estuary, the place of storms
chooses you. Sometimes the roads
flood. Sometimes it rains for days.
Epiphanies received in such
sepia green holes
must be of a type that shake a man’s
immediacy to its core.
Who can argue that we are not
the center of a universe?
Who can deny the shape
of the sky?
There is a mathematics
of speaking gently between the stars.
And down here beside the Estero River
a small band composed with horns,
winds, drums, a piano. A black and white
picture of its members is nailed
beside the handle of a door
to an abandoned Eden
in nighttime by now.