impetus

you’ll blame Sylvia Plath 
for the twist of your spine,
backing away from a fist.
vertebral space 
offers no respite —
no lost map no running car no answers 
from scrying mirror or poisoned cup.

*

bouquets of electricity 
will fill your chest with different vision,
the traffic-sound of some god will remove 
your restraints.  in a few days,
you’ll write psych ward haiku 
with a contraband pencil
while an arsonist describes 
his burning home in perfect detail.

*

on the walk home you’ll cry over graffiti 
in the Orange Street underpass, 
think about the one who got away,
wonder if you still have her number,
bum a Marlboro, wear a sunflower sweater,
exhume what’s not there.