Haiku 19

She rolls up her dress blue flowers over boxers near the Black Muslim.

At ninety-one, how many other naps has she taken in sunlight?

The floor, worn away into grimacing profiles, into continents.

The fly seeks the sun, never getting through the screen last week of July.

Her hair, purple waves over a determined stare, guitar on her back.

The terns flap southeast and what if it’s the last time I behold such?

A short maple’s shade two inches short of my ledge neck craned for the bus.

An immense stone hand holds two figures in its palm; a son and father.

Gull on a thermal, mistaken, one instant, for stolen gossamer.

Raindrop to pavement softer, just a touch, than one footstep in the night.

Her square Pan Am bag holds her skirt down in the back at long last, the train.

Ford F-150, curbside, signal blinking, some armor sans a knight.

I take this long drink of cool air through my window, savoring nightfall.

Two crows on the track one without a bite of bread follows the one with.

Wind doesn’t whisper it reminds us of how we’ve mislaid memory.