Haiku 7

Might this crane, stilled, suggest a cat at attention, triangular head?

Left hand like a starfish watch it long enough, sensibly, it may move an arm.

One cedar tree branch bent like a worm, much older than this argument

They call the busman “driver”–that formality cracks in my own throat.

Thick plaid headgear, brown beard, thick glasses–a voice like the end of the world.

She waves, the bus goes, she hunches her red shoulders sundown.

A wise gas exchange that’s how I serve the Earth slinging CO2.

The accordion held by our ancient Russian choir beneath my floor.

What else might I be wrong about, given so much time and passion?

The book, the record, whichever finishes first… at the same time.

Heater on the bus declaiming hollow language waiting for its fill.

In front of two lights a hill and its calm climbing, no sound of the motor

Washing only the hand that’s been in the piss; surety.

Someone stuck a stamp on the back of Hemingway; a sad Christmas seal?

A serious thing, death, and also two white lights on three white walls.

Why yes, you workmen, give me a whistle when I’m nude at the window

A hiss from the street as if a snake would chitter; no one goes anywhere.

My hand and the pen feel charged–too bad for my mind it’s time for bed.