CHRIS GORDON Haiku 2002

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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