Three Lines On Having Pooed
Like a petal,
detached from its flowering stem,
I float with empty bowels.
I Look Over, ‘Cross The Street
A red-tiled roof
above, the moss-mould colonises.
And Each Sep’rate, Dying Ember
Ah, distinctly I remember,
t’was the post-noon of November,
as the sky – its blanket grey – hid space ‘n time,
that I let my muscle-mem’ry
spill through ink to ‘lease ‘n let free
that with which my firing neurons sowed my mind.
Unto The End Of This Here Notebook
These pages three,
in their loose ‘n blank-lined state,
are, together, a haiku.
This tanka, in its love for them,
destroys their pure expression.
The thread that binds their imag’ry
The page was blank; is writ’;
Image credit – Catawiki