Saturday, September 24, 2016

a slew of haiku

may the tongue keep wings
& lash unbashful tumbled
flight from perch, with bite

faceplant and footprint
the ground never looked so good
on our stupid hands

my bed of basil
in a love full of fences
grown coiled diamonds

It is how you can
smell a season. It is what
you tape to the walls.

Hills hides the dancers.
I look up and still myself
to see the clouds move.

Rare these days become--
the ones that threaten time,
the ones that feel like God.

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