NOT YET –
mad is the little girl, tongue to teeth
sliver drinking the draft
        of a pleasure clap in the dark
and dining wire bound
        on the stock of recession shelves.



SOMEHOW –
white winds the hell picket fence *****
sterile wrapping her house
on stilts termite vein unsteady
and hiding the beryl murk
of its smudge-empty panes.



NOT LET –
fail is the innocent, laurel hung
slack dangling on the vine
from a hickory gibbet down grown
and twitching in the zephyrs
of prayer stammer and stench.