Bap

previously published in CANNOT EXIST

A plaster, a wood,
a bayford, a steep.
 
This alarmed sneeze
of Hertford sirs.
 
Child: nil, which
cannot be a
burgess in the wings.
 
Each one day
ticket one
above the line
of the wood.
 
Some excess inverted
like a sheep on its head.
 
Clouds of origin,
a dog in the fen.
 
Eipgam. Good
morning General.

This poem appears in the 2008 Anthology
View all poems by Lisa Jarnot