Black Smear, Empty Space
Brown splotch of wood grain
trapped inside the fine mesh
of a blank page dead tree
waving or pulling the finger
at me No, upon closer
inspection a black smear
The printer getting anxious
about all that empty space
The fat crow resting
on an ice-slicked branch
all that empty space
behind her the neighbours
getting anxious
about that black smear
The inspector’s no closer
to cracking the case my finger
pulls the blank page
out of the printer I’m feeling
happy about all that empty
space
Blizzard Triptych
i.
The sky’s a-blizzard
with the blistered skin
of angels another me
runs out into this psoriasis
storm little mortal me
ii.
And the sky’s a-blizzard
with the contents of a paper-
shredder spilled or the comical
debris of some cartoon blast
from Yo Somebody’s shotgun
ii.
And the sky’s a-blizzard
with the downy flake
of someone else’s poem
I return to my self
and give his head a shake
Hurry
Up, Interesting Future!
after John Ashbery
A gift wrapped
in a pink bow—
or is it a pink
arrow
piercing three
initials?
E. B. B.
A wild rose curls
over the top.
I sometimes have found
myself in a
similar situation. Strange,
untidy growth
among elegant flowers.
Is it simply a
matter of penmanship—
how we drop in
and scrawl
a message and
leave others
with the task
of a fumbling
translation?
Robert Browning
blatted out his
own name through
an early
recording device of the late
19th century.
“R-r-r-obert
Br-r-rowning!”
He seemed
shocked by the brownness
of his name.
Electrified by the ability
to reach all
those delicate tulips
of the future.
Adam Lawrence’s poetry has recently appeared in Misfitmagazine, SurVision Magazine, and Carousel Magazine. Lawrence works as a freelance copyeditor and writer in Florenceville-Bristol, NB, the “French Fry Capital of the World.”