Haiga Archive

through the lashes
of a squint
our past becomes
a perfect picture
of us and then

a grief
that never lets go…
you stand
as a monument
to yourself

under the clock tower
she asks for the time…
I fumble for my watch

round and round
in circles
our quarrel
rides
the carousel

your tight-lipped
satisfaction
as you
put the moat
around your castle

market closed…
the working girl
set out her stall

at the bus stop
she waits for his excuse…
two come along at once