Birdseed Haiku
as if late
to the funeral
this sparrow
memory–
the present tense
of death
at a late hour
writing words
that feel early
a kiss
nothing like
the present tense
someone helpful
placed your lost hat
on a tombstone
these butterflies
only seem
underemployed
snow speckles falling
mind speckles
following
asleep
listening to trains pass
only a body
there’s the neighbor
you only meet
digging in earth
dreaming the dead
deep night the cat
licks herself
dreaming the dead
accidentally you
awaken closer
things that pretend
to be haunted the grain
of artificial wood
morning star
so far from feeling
my feet right now
you mistake Venus
for a spaceship
coming home late
a crooked window
parts of me
laugh after death
humans will end
and blue
find other work
Styrofoam cup
blows back and forth
can’t look away
a blue wing
encased in ice
trembles back
wait a moment
behind the house
morning hasn’t reached
friends turn slowly
a bicycle wheel
in the winter creek
skipping the fireworks
reading postcards
from dead friends
3 a.m.
wild horses of Iceland
Church of YouTube
cremation
the burning question
only fuel
the moon
making me late
for a funeral
moon viewing
made me late
for your viewing
blue glass beads
in the coffin
all our reflections
counting the days
from a funeral
to the next pregnancy
thinking less
writing more
moonlight
moonlight
in a glass of water
being slips through
feng shui–
mirrory jewels
in her coffin
not seeing
what you become
funeral flowers
finally hearing
rain on the umbrella
John Cage
tides of friends
a cold sea under us
decides
raindrops falling
so random
so certain
old men eating
cold sardines they discuss
young men’s loves
old widow
throws sardines to stray cats
her anniversary
to be well
without sunlight
live under a rock
falling down dock–
taking the time
to let things die
snowy graveyard
crows gossip
coldly
writing the moon
one more time
no answer
trying to look
behind a motel mirror
Adam and Eve
forbidden fruit
the skin’s DNA
inconclusive
feeding the birds–
the best part
no funerals
the old sweater
dreams of sheep
dreams of moths
spring’s return–
a widow’s doll clothes
blow on the line
hospital window
how darkness becomes
color gradients
swearing
on a stack of bibles–
the forklift operator
walking along
the river’s stars–
your words in my voice
night river’s stars
your email
in my voice
deep forest walk
data streaming everywhere
no connection
his finger
in your spilled coffee
weirdly drawing
people in windows
feel like the past
feels like windows
some blood
in a kleenex
with a bit of food
her bed’s kleenex
she appears to be making
nesting materials
the wasp
the other side of the glass
traces your face
the orchard store’s hive
split in half by glass–
we both confess
far from neighborhoods
the darkness feels cleaner
with horses
the most worrying
places we never appear
the roof or death
there’s the bus stop
you used to wait
when we still waited
a marriage lingers
in woods behind the house
a birdfeeder
a cat we found
buried in the backyard
no longer ours
rain all week
visiting the cat’s grave
my shoes sinking
everyone in line
at the post office
a psychologist
stores shutter
taking with them old people’s
sense of belonging
autumn hunting
she stares out a screen door
he never changed
young widow stares
at bright snow through a screen
door never changed
school ruler
the teeth marks
of winter math
words have
such small bodies
such big heads
