Haiku 12

Music from the church at this distance, I will hear only blended souls.

What would Gang of Four say about this construction between me and freeze?

Against unhappiness paprika on potato contends to the taste.

An intimate act summoning optimism that I’ll see the moon.

Not so much the wind as the shutter cord’s tapping, the ebb of sirens.

Mill that fine, grinders! your machine shall erode one day in high forest

Mexican diner fiesta music bounces off empty tables

Elevator door somebody’s cooking sausage I won’t know the name.

All is in fact one and I must find communion with these dog shit lumps.

Could be a bad night, but I hate him on the right within mere minutes.

“Love is a practice” and that’s what I take from him thirty minutes in.

Tonight the siren takes the form of a thin scream beneath the drizzle.

For one sunlit hour I escape my punishment shall I remember?

The concrete spreader, hungry orange pelican brown hose for its worm.

Scrubbed-out coffee cup its stain traveled so quickly to my yellow sponge.

Ask not for whom the cell phone rings; on this bus no one will answer.