Haiku
Broken vase.
No way to repair
the past.
The cold sun rises.
On tossed sheets, a pale hand
unfurls in a final dream.
Lights coming.
The poised foot
retreats to the icy curb.
Empty bed.
The wren's next
cracks in the frost.
Thin rain dulls the dawn.
The fisherman tilts the oyster,
slips grey tides into his mouth.
Morning cup.
Between my hands,
the steam of a distant land.
Outside, wind races,
tossing leaves and laughter.
Here, tea cools in a single bowl.
Shattered sleep.
Wake, cursing
the beauty of the dawn.
Sunday. Church. Singing
love songs to a god
he steadfastly disobeys.
In the darkness,
she shatters ice
to wash her morning face.
