Three Poems

Seizure Wheels

Jerk your collar,
don't gulp, till you spy
a heart-robbing pooch,
or that a
        m
        b
        u
        l
        a
        n
        c
        e may haply bound your way
on the dead-end street
where Conrad Aiken
squandered his brass
on a waif.

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Good Morning?

Settle Ascension Day eggs
on grungy eaves. T
                 h
                 u
                 n
                 d
                 e
                 r
                 b
                 o
                 l
                 t
                 s and ill-fates won't larrup.
Sylvia Plath wanted no breakfast.

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Flake to Palm

Whittle ash sapling
as corona dawns on Taurus. M
                           a
                           l
                           a
                           d
                           y dissolves;
even Louise Bennett's head-throb
concluded in relief.

 

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