Some concrete poetry for the EAH readers.

A Conch from Sicily
by Alfred Corn
Attic once
My nursery is like
An early language no longer
Spoken, a babble too small ever
Again to house adults. Yet the spiral
Stair remains, Maestro Fibonacci the builder,
Who made it pirouette downward like a clockwork
Calla. In the Southern Hemisphere it would run
Counterclockwise, yet I as well as the conchs
Down under have a silhouette like South
America, and we all smooth the path
That clothes our foot with orange
Coral enamel paneling and floor,
As far down as this loosely
Furled calyx, one concave
Rondo’s calm finale — or,
If not the last, then
The next-to-last
Summing up, a
Single word:
Il tempo —