some special shelf
hides so well behind a wall
you’ve forgotten
some special shelf
hides so well behind a wall
you’ve forgotten
an old-time
operator—each line plugged
in a blind socket
boxes filled with
drafts of an unsent letter
stacked against the door
somewhere this
path split again and became
no path at all
like turtles
on logs and rocks waiting
for fire
rather than
read this haiku, you
write it
exhausted,
trees—early—throw leaves
in a fit of pique
playing mirrors’
angles, you glimpse yourself as
another
whistle-pigs, at least,
possess a name as clever
than themselves
familiar songs
repeating just as when last
needles skipped