This one day
I swear the sun moved
east. I was sitting under an oak tree
on Boston Common reading Williams
aloud to myself, gathering stares
like merit badges—sidelong glances
of brown-bag bank managers lunching
liquid at nearby tables, concerned
gawks of social activists scheduling
action, gaped-mouth mothers
muttering—when noon struck once
and shadows shifted west instead
of east, and noon was struck again.
Haiku
Construction on the Causeway
White cranes
pluck blue crabs
from the swollen wetland creeks
Yellow cranes wave flags
