if you're bored, you're not paying attention
after the last train a man works the floor polisher alone almost
snow calculus — the slow accumulation
of almost nothing
turning the corner into the sudden warmth of sunlight
in a light rain
a woman pushes a shopping cart, singing “Wish You Were Here”
new glasses: all of my mistakes now painfully clear
the wool smell
of grandfather’s army coat —
frost-tipped leaves
(contributed to the 1,000 Verse Renga Project)… Read the rest
clearing sky–
cherry petals lying blown
upon the asphalt–
what have you taught us
except to fall, and fall, and fall?
published in American Tanka #16… Read the rest
One thing follows another,
as sure as teeth mesh
with teeth, the pinion turns the gear,
the axle drives the wheel and the world
tumbles forward on its pivot:
Some things are reversible,
allowing for the unavoidable backlash,
a little play, a wiggle in the works,
a slap in the gears, the jerk of each car
as the train gets underway,
the taking up of slack
and the moment
just before reversal,
the holding of breath, the gasp,
the lash, the slop, the stop.… Read the rest
The rosin dust on the violinist’s
oldest violin is white,
like the chalk beneath the words
where children learn to write
the equations that will define
the arcs and angles of their work.
Rosin is the trace of a hundred
thousand notes, silent, no spark
remaining but the sense that all
has come to rest: the scratches
on the indestructible stands,
the shabby folding chairs, matches
in the composer’s tweedy pocket.… Read the rest
Calder sculpture;
a single brown leaf tumbling
from the sky
published in The Heron’s Nest VIII.2, June 2006
This is my first published haiku outside of tinywords.… Read the rest
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