Haiku 6

Photo Credit: DDFic. Licensed cc-by.
Photo Credit: DDFic. Licensed cc-by.

Brown-and-white speckled
pigeon, its feet cut to nubs
Black Friday morning

Fly on bathroom shelf,
whom have you witnessed today
Who stood in stilled tears?

Leafless maple
does it still pass overhead
if I walk eyes down?

That moment before
the walk signal switches green;
a drill on concrete.

American flag
wrapped around itself, flapping;
the red fire engine.

Into the wind runs
that spotted dog, against
finger-thin branches

Does spirit stay here
while the mind and the body
paste up the outside?

Maybe I’m fated
to hear the music always
over our scrabbling.

I wait longer, now,
for the heat to come on
than for the sunrise.

Flowering clover
thins as it struggles sideways
up the power pole

Hall light reflected
along the ceiling:  arms, trunk…
the shape of a cross.

I am one fat glob
of folly, folly, folly–
the light on the hill.

That sense, suspicious
that the cold of this winter
shall sit in in situ.

This chill cuts away
every defense I’ve gone and
made for myself.

The airplane is green,
as much as I can believe
anything, this season.

Already done my time,
says the big man, light-skinned,
hand on a bottle.

For just one moment 
as he purses his lips
teeth fall from his mouth

The damaged paper
holds the long-dead storm–
when was my light born?

Lovebirds on the screen
take up my whole living room
overhead, the moon.

The end of this track
one metal end in runoff;
square headlights approach.

The crane swings west, south,
yellow metal tons vanish,
still, the window shade.

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