Haiku

What we don’t see: on

the back of a cell phone, a

sky of brilliant stars.
(after Basho)

An idle day, on

the couch with cats, hum of the

refrigerator.

A week’s clothes tumble

in the dryer, and we read,

silent, together.

Hunger pain like

a pull inward, so familiar

it feels like family.

They say we are made

of stardust, but today I

simply feel burned out.

Cuts and scars are there

to see--what healing happens

where eyes can’t see?

Sleep scans the crackly

radio dial of dreams,

voices in static.

Undone homework--what

is that sound? It’s the teacher’s

head hitting the board.

Her life was a bad

first draft, ripe for revision’s

heavy, cutting pen.

the morning starts with

a cold razor to the skin--

this is called normal?

The man sits in his

tower of gold and mirrors--

windows warp what’s real.

On the hill, bare trees

stand like shocks of thinning hair--

a man’s late winter.