Haiga Archive

in resentment of rain
how little it falls here
shuddering through clouds
like a shy clown, paralyzed
by his own fractal smile

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.

sun shower—
the ripple of rain
in my coffee

This is the way it will end. Not with poetry or fine wine or a second chance, but with burning pyres of lego and bathmats and the New York Times. There are always those that think they can go back, if they could only go back, just once, they could change everything.

they found it on the edge of the highway
30 miles from anywhere, crumbling slabs
bandaged with loose ribbons of vine
swaddled in moss, the occasional sentry
frowning in shades of decrepit stone

grumbling
between the foxtails
harvest moon

coal-wrapped
or seaweed, each message
an icon, a way
to build our shells
pull stone into our bellies
push out to sea