December 16, 2016 § Leave a comment


her hand covered in orange pulp she slips into her accent


full moon hanging from a line between buildings a white shirt


it’s been ten years we start calling each other by name


cold spring rain snail in its beak the crow blinks


wan light of the bathroom a spider lowers to the blue tile


sun shifts to the rest of the house a petal blowing across the rug


the curve in the metal peaks a taut black cord its slight motion


waiting for the timer to go off I let the moth walk on my arm


the green chair has lost its cushion tracked in tiny wet leaves


dawn light of spring a ticking from the grasses


the lights go out here in the room all along the full moon


through a gap in the seat of the bench the last weed


she changes her bathing suit again the flies start biting


a spot on the table without varnish quietly the heave of trees


washed over the lip of the bowl an ant holding a yellow fleck


her hand turns purple in the rain an empty bus passes


steam drifting from a manhole a crow picks at ragged plastic


dandelions among the stones that wasn’t one machine it was two


covered in graffiti the train cars pass quickly through town


it keeps peeling itself off into a moth the bare bulb in the night








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You are currently reading CHRIS GORDON Haiku 2002 at ant5.


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