Haiga Archive

mating season
the first brush stroke
on canvas

sunlit canvas
the artist dips his brush
into diamonds

you didn’t notice you loved her until you watched her, back turned, hop-scotch across the sky. they didn’t ask for reasons, but cast their fears in metal, and waited for those long celestial hours to turn to clay. tracing a filigree road through the heavens, the hooligan spirits are spitting a canvas of litter and mud. it hangs in the met, between warhol and matisse, and turns trapezoid on every other thursday.

still white outside
I’m leaving my canvas
empty

wciąż biało na zewnątrz
pozostawiam moje płótno
pustym

on the canvas
the color of his night
deep silence

brushstrokes
across the canvas sky
sunset clouds