cloudy day
I wave at the neighbors
I don’t know
Tag: senryu
daughter and
mother the
same hard face
bus stop
an empty bench
and a bag lunch
birthday party
the new neighbor
shows his tattoo
Stalin’s statue
in his heart
still stone
street preacher
the hooker throws a few coins
in his hat
family gathering
talking of dogs
long dead
black and white
the absolute truth
of her ultrasound
a swallowtail
touches my fingertips—
warrior pose
unboxed letters
what I missed
between the lines
sun-baked dust–
the one thing moving
is my neighbour?s tongue
a crossword puzzle
side by side my parents
autumn leaves
lipstick red
her brand new path to herself
platelets—
the trip we were planning
to plan
pub. credit: Modern Haiku 41:2 (2010)
anniversary
roses in a vase
drying together
Skype—
my parents describe
the harvest moon
early bus—
catching my reflection
in the police van window
at the top of the hill
I am still
the same size
Missouri highway
this night there?s only me
and a radio preacher
straight furrowed fields
all the things I wish
I could unsay
half the sky
a deeper blue
mid-life birthday
anniversary
on his bedside table
a thin film of dust
in the apartment
that he never tried to leave
a map of the world
jet lag
she unravels
his half-finished sweater