Haiku 56

First of July… rain sounds but no rain, back of the bus

That tree thinks about what the wind might do next

Third of July, ice blocks the pitcher’s spout… corkscrewed Diet Coke

tanka: Projector: Ticks of the uptake reel spinning alone… story’s end wears thin

A quiet heat… her hair not quite tentacles but inquisitive

“Safeguard” worn away soon from my soap

She’ll make love after three–never two days of stubble

Sixth of July… one disposable mask hung from the hydrant

Opulence, worn sofa in a desert– to the sleeper

One soap bubble improves the world, exactly 24 seconds

The moon again… I shake condensation from a sherbet pint

The moon stays up for anyone to take its hint

tanka: He taunted me for not saying hello– I almost did my deaf act, to his face… but sneakered away

tanka: I can never know “Rosie”: Woman, girl, dog, cat, phantom, or a lack…? but he screams for her each night– clockwork valor