Tanka

 

 

Bob Lucky, CN   the ceiling fan takes measured swipes at the warm air— wiping my face on a sleeve I start to write you again     all night we had no need to speak— jamming hands into pockets now we search for words     on my desk a Tibetan singing bowl filled with silence I move my chair closer to the window     taking out the trash beneath a star-cluttered sky I stand on the curb— for a brief moment I feel the earth wobble     sweating and swatting mosquitoes school picnic a retiring teacher picks at the potato salad