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.

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.

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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