AN ILL-FATED TERCET

Cold-bloodedly I sat to write,
While it was still the black of night,
A verse that might be dark or light.

Since passion had not entered in,
With just mechanics I’d begin
And set this three-spoked verse a-spin

To let it roll on where it will
And watch it either end in thrill
Or calamitously take a spill—

Momentum gathered as it rolled
And all too soon I lost my hold—
The verse sped headlong, growing bolder
Zipping past the margin’s shoulder
Then crashed and burned where it would molder.

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