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
previously published in 3Lights, September 2009
at the top of the hill
I am still
the same size
first published in Roadrunner August 2006
Missouri highway
this night there’s only me
and a radio preacher
straight furrowed fields
all the things I wish
I could unsay
previously published in Jim Applegate, ed., Small Canyons 4 Anthology
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