I found a three-legged spider in my notebook today
& sat beneath the shady legacy of a long-ago appletown prince.
Together, as insects, we devoured the weight of seven-syllabled endings;
a single word holding our mouths under a v-shaped spotlight.
Before being sentenced to a full-bodied crescendo
you breathe a rhythm dictated by periods,
a series of full stops extended into lung, abdomen and thorax
—rest stops on the road map to a lyric bellyfire.
And when the windshield fractures
your eyes become 2 halves of a three-pointed compass,
the image rose up and folded over into a tripled repetition.
And, as every insect will show,
3 is not enough to live on.