And long may it hit,

the concave triplex hole;

while hidden in a room with no walls,

smears here, and a straw-bed,

and a turntable and the words

have too oft bled;

I canonise these rooms

and walk within them and their dust

and see out through telescopes,

and watch time reflect back:

the umbrella and the border collie

and the post office and an indent,

where those men of old,

would skid on black ice and shrug,

and dust off and cap doffed.

The record plays,

a theremin sound, cordless depths

of ice and satellite and green

memories of fields embedded

in a damp matted facsimile;

the new rose-shed anatomy deciduous heart.

🌷 (3)


◄ Moon Haiku (or 'How Poets Can Pale Into Insignificance')

The Way The Wind Is Blowing ►


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