Jackie Hangman

Pied, in tonal contrast Beauty in your definite lines, In your purpose, Your points. In The flint shard of your eye, which Uncaring Will peirce any air to decoration, To barbed wire Or bare branch Where your will, Concentrated to an end, Will collect to it all manner of charms.

Fiscal Shrike

Little bullet of a beak, coal-tipped callous terror, Black and white, definite, as the lines on your coat, You pick, and those you pin, have life’s last arguments spent on the points Of your choosing, On the thorny issues of decoration, On slow sunburnt desiccation. Your lightning strike White through the wing Your unhungry eye Black as an executioners You decide what should comprise your crown, And with delicate precision impale.