Haiku Archive

4/15/08

Heat from a car hood
scrambled the air above it,
engine still seething.

4/14/08

I read animals
rob from their old nests, stealing
what was once theirs.

4/13/08

This morning I hear
in the birds’ songs the voices
of teachers I knew.

4/12/08

First the forecast, then
tree buds open just in time
to catch the last snow.

4/11/08

In my dark city,
the moon trolls empty streets, dragging
watery shadows.

4/10/08

An evening like a
black bowl filling up—I
gather sleep like alms.

4/9/08

The rope went slack, then
snaked toward me to mark the most
twisted connection.

4/8/08

Along the branches—
buds. Along the streets—faces
blooming for the sun.

4/7/08

At the museum
I walked circles until no
art seemed familiar.

4/6/08

With bears out of caves
and hungry, perhaps we shouldn’t
roam the streets.

4/5/08

If time is a stream
why can’t we step out of it,
dry our feet at last?

4/4/08

So strange you wonder
the poet didn’t invent fire,
didn’t burn the sky.

4/3/08

Evidence of cups
without coasters, their orbits
overlapping.

4/2/08

Umbrellas hide us
and we float along sidewalks
like ghostly mushrooms.

4/1/08

Stumbling from sleep
into sleep—never quite there,
never quite leaving.

3/31/08

The black cormorant
climbs to dive, the seas he knows
always deep enough.

3/30/08

People want to change
gender but not species or
from person to plant.

3/29/08

When time came to sing
the birds said nothing. The black
morning matched their eyes

3/28/08

The typo said he
stared off—not started—and I
left him alone.

3/27/08

The sun seems altered,
as if it and not the trees
had begun to green.

3/26/08

The words rolled over
a bare landscape, catching
naked branches.

3/25/08

The sprouting crocus
poked out of the snow
like fingers reaching.

3/24/08

The dizzying stars:
so slow, we feel—instead
of see—their dance.

3/23/08

The wick is a stub,
the candle almost as short,
but let’s re-light it.

3/22/08

I don’t mean to steal
bed covers each night. It’s just
the tide of my sleep.

3/21/08

I should have kept spring
in my mind—I spoke the word
and now it’s snowing.

3/20/08

Birds dart through the blue
of another circling year,
seen after they pass.

3/19/08

A child gripped the chair
like a superhero set
to make a new door.

3/18/08

Some of yesterday’s
snow wets the streets. The rest climbed
back into the fog.

3/17/08

All weekend, drunks
patrolled the streets, traveling
in tottering bands.

3/16/08

I mistook a chip bag—
gray and red—for a dead bird,
wind lifting its soul.

3/15/08

You declare spring and
expect colors to appear
with no further help.

3/14/08

I watch my thoughts fly
and twist like strands of smoke that
never land again.

3/13/05

No unallied heart,
no beat so free it doesn’t
double to be one.

3/12/08

Hours in the night
line up like streetlamps leading
to a dark house.

3/11/08

All my young neighbors’
bodies carry sports they played,
eyes still in a game.

3/10/08

Perched at the top twig,
a cardinal—the first I’ve seen
in gray Chicago.

3/9/08

Stumbling on the steps—
I expect the end too soon,
or the floor is late.

3/8/08

Would you want tattoos
drawn on the inside and known
only to your heart?

3/7/08

Pink, purple, and blue
layers at the horizon
rest on empty trees

3/6/08

Eventually
ink drains from the pen, its point
scratching the last words.

3/5/08

There, beneath the reefs
of plowed and frozen snow lies
five weeks of litter.

3/4/08

Chicago winds lift
my umbrella but never
carry me too far.

3/3/08

Monday comes around.
Cars rush through the dark splashing
rain from puddles.

3/2/08

A scent no one smells
signals bananas to turn—
some clock set to “brown.”

3/1/08

By “clearing clutter”
I mean moving it to be
with other clutter.

2/29/08

My mind, the machine,
has run without repairs since
I don’t know how long.

2/28/08

This watered-down sun
does little more than sketch
trees’ empty branches.

2/27/08

In my dream, sheep bleat
as if they were angry at
not being counted.

2/26/08

Snow caterpillars
climbing along every twig
slip in morning sun.

2/25/08

Listen for first words—
cracking ice, bird song, and rain—
hear silence stopping.

2/24/08

I return through smells
of cooking, and my kitchen
invites me home.

2/23/08

In the photographs
weather brushed walls aside to
look into our homes.

2/22/08

I’m no traveler
but morning’s moon-pale snow still
prompts me to move on.

2/21/08

The moon on a stand
watching clouds parade by,
passing in review.

2/20/08

Checkerboards of light
on distant high rises—souls
to share 4 a.m.

2/19/08

Familiar tableau:
stacks of essays, dog-eared books,
and an empty chair.

2/18/08

My cursor’s journey:
stopping and starting along
the ravine’s edge.

2/17/08

I spent an hour
searching for how to control
my computer.

2/16/08

I’m always looking
for surprise—another day,
another haiku.

2/15/08

The train of hours
will pass by, leaving smoke
instead of noise.

2/14/08

Today I’m writing
in red and struggle to keep
letters straight and true.

2/13/08

Grab the red needle
of a compass and sew—perhaps
your clothes will guide you.

2/12/08

I return from work,
I leave—a desert’s rain
evaporating.

2/11/08

Right now, everything
dammed by ice freezes—so nothing
needs to be held back.

2/10/08

Without looking up,
I knew the L passed—white light
streaking the ground.

2/9/08

When the trees emptied,
winter began its siege—set
on starving us all.

2/8/08

Out of the window
just before bed, I saw you
heading off to work.

2/7/08

One car, parked all week,
records five snows, its humped shape
a wise white whale.

2/6/08

Sharing silence with
other walkers washed by
cars, cabs, and buses.

2/5/08

In its Basho piece,
National Geographic
made his steps seem slick.

2/4/08

All winter, dreaming
in green and brown, when, outside,
gray and white gather.

2/3/08

Like a moth, my way’s
blocked by light’s afterimage
standing before me.

2/2/08

At intersections,
you leap gray slush pools in your
urban steeplechase.

2/1/08

A world visible
only to cameras dances
through this still morning.

1/31/08

Then my eye travels
along the roof line, taking
each leap without fear.

1/30/08

I squeeze my eyes shut
and flowers begin to bloom
in winter darkness.

1/29/08

The wash and dishes
accompany me—their wait
accumulating.

1/28/08

Headlights reflected
in windows across the street—
eyes in a mirror.

1/27/08

At dawn, cold air holds
the city in place—sculpture
waiting for the sun.

1/26/08

Paper sky, black trees
and snow still falling—winter
as diorama.

1/25/08

Bank thermometers
disagree how to label this
impossible cold.

1/24/08

If they’re gathering
all I’ve lost—all in one room—then
I can stop looking.

1/23/08

It’s winter—the moon
is a stranger wandering
alone in the cold.

1/22/08

My reading lamp shines
on one face of objects as
they await a story.

1/21/08

Chained city noises—
train, truck, plane, and traffic—
break before silence.

1/20/08

Today, air is so cold
steam rising above buildings
flickers like flame.

1/19/08

The sun and the cold
contend over sidewalk ice,
and no one’s moving.

1/18/08

On the book’s back page—
a haiku scrawled in green ink
and illegible.

1/17/08

Rusty cathedral:
iron columns and stillness
under the L.

1/16/08

Walking home I heard
two people fight, their voices
playing with knives.

1/15/08

A stack of pages—
each hour covers the last
like white sediment.

1/14/08

The last swallow
at the end of my coffee
tastes like bitter mud.

1/13/08

Kitchen cabinets—
doors wide open, dishes spread
to make an escape.

1/12/08

My mind ran away
during instructions—I’m too
tired to call it back.

1/11/08

Inside me are one
million sighs—and I’ll never
spend more than half.

1/10/08

I wonder sometimes
if I’m rude to ghosts in ruins
I pass over.

1/9/08

Intersection man—
the wind is flying and you
pose for a statue.

1/8/08

Winter lightning, then
rain all night—awake to worry
until morning.

1/7/08

He stands in the street,
his song the names of newspapers
he hopes to sell.

1/6/08

Up at 4 am—
light beneath the door told me
someone shared the time.

1/5/08

Which roar do you hear—
the train, a plane overhead,
or your blood rushing?

1/4/08

The snow from Tuesday
craters the sidewalks, its ice
rippling underfoot.

1/3/08

Everywhere I go
I discover someone
arrived before me.

1/2/08

Waking to odors
from last night’s dinner—onions,
burnt oil lingering.

1/1/08

Why does the number
of Eskimo words for snow
seem to grow each year?

12/31/07

Empty trees are not
like fingers, not like masts, and
nothing like nothing.

12/30/07

Fallen arches in
letters “n” and “h” disclose
my pen’s painful steps.

12/29/07

Snaking tire trails
in alley ice—rain puddled
like new-swallowed prey.

12/28/07

With classrooms empty
words rise from chalkboards like ghosts
surfacing in ponds.

12/27/07

In a winter gust,
a curled leaf creeps on pointy legs
like a lonely crab.

12/26/07

We live in the open—
even the smallest spider
casts a shadow.

12/25/07

The layers of days
superimposed—few moments
can show through it all.

12/24/07

Which shall I believe—
the sun or the snow, melting
or new icicles?

12/23/07

My pen pulls a worm
from earth—it writhes on the page,
twists in the white air.

12/22/07

At bus stop benches—
all the hours of waiting
carved into the seat.

12/21/07

I see the same world
again in black puddles, colors
smeared by rain.

12/20/07

No one works at work
today—instead we blink and
wonder where we are.

12/19/07

After the exam—
all the chairs reshuffled
like panicked dancers.

12/18/07

I dreamt trees sprouted
white leaves and became snow
suspended in night.

12/17/07

Long before daybreak
the sky glows orange—the heat
of light in the cold.

12/16/07

Out shoveling snow
I thought of serving cake at
a giant’s wedding.

12/15/07

The confused surface
of ice on sidewalk—each
direction good enough.

12/14/07

Really listening,
I can hear the computer
writing it all down.

12/13/07

Those things you used to
do—smelling a bakery you
no longer visit.

12/12/07

The corner puddle
tells me nothing is falling
so my heart stills too.

12/11/07

Remembering what
you knew—the empty jar now
used for something else.

12/10/07

When did my daughter’s
scribbling turn into Chinese
to speak her name?

12/9/07

An ice storm hit and
I awoke to lacquered walks
And limbs crazed with light.

12/8/07

Saturday morning:
streets rouse from darkness and find
no one is out yet.

12/7/07

When it snows, the night
never gets dark—even light
clings where it falls.

12/6/07

Why is that cricket
still here and still so proud of
knowing the least thing?

12/5/07

Snow blows from trees and
fills the sky with last night’s weather—
as if we’d missed it.

12/4/07

No one twists the stems
of watches anymore—we
have no time for that.

12/3/07

With leaves down, she sees
into houses on the street
every window dark.

12/2/07

Sleep’s confused quest
takes me nowhere—I wake whipped
by a dragon’s tail.

12/1/07

Expecting snow, we
started to make the world white,
our minds the first blank.

11/30/07

While I’m inside, pink
sunsets fade—now I walk west
long after the sun.

11/29/07

I never see trains
at their terminus—just in
between and paused.

11/28/07

On the avenue
sidewalk, we cross back and forth—
guards always changing.

11/27/07

Yesterday I tried
not to write the same poem. Today
I’ll try again.

11/26/07

Wine bottles stand like
soldiers at attention, in rows
and full of blood.

11/25/07

An old to-do list
catalogues all the day’s tasks
I forget doing.

11/24/07

His foot slipped on a
magazine, its images
too slick to hold him.

11/23/07

Think of houses that
are translated into and
out of Japanese.

11/22/07

The days are blinking
in time lapse—I search the strobe
to see the movement.

11/21/07

Waking to profound
silence, I discovered
the power was out.

11/20/07

On the walk to work
I count iPods feeling
every bit as smug.

11/19/07

I crane my neck to
see—which is darker
the water or sky?

11/18/07

Morning’s shadow play:
a chorus of black twigs and
paper dome of sky.

11/17/07

The window boxes
are empty. Winter, have you
given up on growth?

11/16/07

Then every room fills
with dross—conversation
we spin into nothing.

11/15/07

The traffic lights change
and our choreography
releases the tide.

11/14/07

After choppy sleep,
the lake looks like a floor covered
with broken plates.

11/13/07

All the smells I thought
were gone for winter, returned
in this morning’s warmth.

11/12/07

The winter bird is
invisible—it has no
form except its song.

11/11/07

I dreamt of waking up
smaller each day—dissolving
in life’s troubles.

11/10/07

Whatever word lands,
it runs like a drop of ink
finding new channels.

11/9/07

Look for evidence—
while you’re studying the sky
the earth is burning.

11/8/07

The last leaves await
a breeze—summer’s final shrug
and drowsy exit.

11/7/07

I reset the clocks
and the patch of daylight still
won’t cover your life.

11/6/07

The temperature drops—
and Chicago’s razor wind
cuts through all my clothes.

11/5/07

Accidentally,
touching wet paint, I left prints
to last forever.

11/4/07

One tree is empty,
the other yellow and thin,
gray bones showing through.

11/3/07

Thieves are out looking,
hoping tonight will make it
easy to forget.

11/2/07

After my daughter
smudged the laptop’s screen, her words
passed under its cloud.

11/1/07

At intersections
I wait for wind to curl around
and hold me up.

10/31/07

Each morning the moon
goes—each night he returns
a little less himself.

10/30/07

Looking at empty
trees, wondering where all those
open hands have gone.

10/29/07

I see woe sitting
in a cup on the counter
and fall into it.

10/28/07

It’s still October
and I smell snow—the wet air
solidifying.

10/27/07

Crows’ sounds aren’t crows’ names—
what use do they have for names
when wind carries them?

10/26/07

Quiet in my kitchen
I hear the L pass—the waves
very far apart.

10/25/07

Paper blows onto
my desk—forming ordered piles
like no drift of leaves.

10/24/07

Who can say for sure
how many trains pass without
being seen or heard?

10/23/07

Now I notice spots
doors and door frames touch, places
use wears the wood bare.

10/22/07

This morning I found
darkness outside—nothing to
keep my eyes open.

10/21/07

Each leaf a letter
every face a leaf—and all
traveling somewhere.

10/20/07

A room of children
making haiku—their fists
opening to count.

10/19/07

All day, expecting
rain—clouds roll in waves over
a staring city.

10/18/07

Watching trees changing—
is green giving up or true
color showing through?

10/17/07

Every day I walk
into spaces crisscrossed by
paths worn bald by use.

10/16/07

Around the corner
a neighbor shouts one half
of an argument.

10/15/07

Each evening the sun
falls from sky, crashing behind
houses over there.

10/14/07

I dreamt becoming
something mute—stone, wood, metal—
and found I liked it.

10/13/07

An exhibition
of words—each proud to be
alone and noticed.

10/12/07

Riding a school bus
I spoke in the broken voice
of bumpy highways.

10/11/07

The catalogue of
colors grows—each leaf turning
to best its neighbors.

10/10/07

Is it terrible
to pass bar doors and love
the smell spilling out?

10/9/07

Waiting for the bus,
I saw everything pass—as if
only I was still.

10/8/07

What are the patterns—
of doors closing, of wind shifting,
of birds leaving?

10/7/07

As leaves fall, shadows
pale beneath trees, and the sun
is too tired to care.

10/6/07

Rising and finding
the world still, I went walking
among the statues.

10/5/07

The neighbor and I
dip chins to say hello—our
eyes still haven’t met.

10/4/07

The year whistles round
to another candle—still,
not a one blows out.

10/3/07

Ink dries in bottles,
colors blacker than before,
and unusable.

10/2/07

Darkness comes sooner
day later—light cedes more
and more to winter.

10/1/07

When I called she asked
“Is that the city walking
beside you?”

9/30/07

As a child I turned
upside down to see the earth—
and felt it spinning.

9/29/07

After each sentence,
I hear the last word again—
freed from its captor.

9/28/07

On a cool evening
we open windows to let
hot afternoons out.

9/27/07

I think of garbage
marching into earth, wondering
who commands it.

9/26/07

Two crows on a wall
take turns flying and landing—
never together.

9/25/07

A streetlamp flickers
behind blowing trees—light dips
in and out of view.

9/24/07

In Starbucks I watched
a hurried pen hover and bob—
its own animal.

9/23/07

Historians lurk
near memories arguing
in loud whispers.

9/22/07

Walking home, passing
restaurants—not one face
inside envies me.

9/21/07

In the tree outside
leading leaves have turned, anxious
to end their changes.

9/20/07

A vine loops, growing
beside its earlier self,
making its laurel.

9/19/07

Slumber hates leaving—
I close my eyes and catch it
tugging my mind down.

9/18/07

At sunset, walking
west—the world crowded with forms
in a flood of light.

9/17/07

My fingers stand up
under the bonsai tree and
dance the can-can.

9/16/07

His glare recalled
shadows between trees older
than the forest.

9/15/07

In the moon, the path
glowed so I watched your legs run
and heard your laughter.

9/14/07

Close your eyes to hear
vehicles moving—far off
and going away.

9/13/07

Cool at last, the wind
blows in angry gusts—ruffling
green leaves in warning.

9/12/07

Waiting for the rain—
the air dims, cold collecting
outside the window.

9/11/07

I’m an acrobat
in my dream, going by names
I don’t recognize.

9/10/07

Gray clouds in layers
along the horizon—stacks
of dark promises.

9/9/07

Tonight the darkness
weighs something, leans on windows.
and has you hiding.

9/8/07

A wren follows me,
lands just out of sight, and flies
before I spy it.

9/7/07

Working ahead I
passed the horizon—and came
up on me from behind.

9/6/07

Let rest long enough,
your art starts to belong to
to another hand.

9/5/07

Dragonflies came late,
riding chill winds into hints
of winter ahead.

9/4/07

I found what I lost
where I left it—where it
refused to be found.

9/3/07

The runners circle—
their steps echo the last lap
unknowingly.

9/2/07

My place marked, I leave
part of my mind stuck within
a frozen story.

9/1/07

Good news, the fly is
gone. Bad news, a picture and
lamp are also gone.

8/31/07

The lost episodes
are airing someplace we can’t
find, know, or visit.

8/30/07

On the wet sidewalk—
a blade of monkey grass twisted
to look like a snake.

8/29/07

Another wave comes—
another debate, keep my feet
or ride it in?

8/28/07

Maybe deja vu
is that rumple in your socks
you can’t get rid of.

8/27/07

The patter of rain
grows so familiar it seems
my ears are dripping.

8/26/07

Dutiful soldiers—
documents’ words stand in line,
still at attention.

8/25/07

In the broken space
of interiors, my eyes
see only so far.

8/24/07

Angry winds and rain—
water blows through buildings until
walls inside weep.

8/23/07

I saw a beetle
and we locked eyes—or we looked
for the other’s eyes.

8/22/07

The window flashes—
the house rumbles—it must be
the L down the street.

8/21/07

Last spring’s flower
arrived unnoticed—now it
withers in plain sight.

8/20/07

The mantis was all
angles—and too still to see
from my own angle.

8/19/07

OK, I get that
being early is hard—give
me the worm already.

8/18/07

After exercise
a stink cloud surrounds me, but
I only notice yours.

8/17/07

Stopping to watch leaves
spinning in a puddle—what
breeze is moving them?

8/16/07

Seen from the window,
my street still life is upset
when people walk through.

8/15/07

If storms were rhythmic
they’d sound like my coffeemaker—
crying in bursts.

8/14/07

The newspaper sits—
its stories busy moving
into black and white.

8/13/07

Imagine waiting
while someone assembles what
you’re about to use.

8/12/07

Back turned, I mistook
your underlining pencil
for a rake outside.

8/11/07

Have trees grown higher
in the window or am I
slumping in this chair?

8/10/07

Morning—the dishes
wait just where they were— wondering
where the hell I am.

8/9/07

The gray light of dawn—
the reluctance in hinges—
a slow groan to start.

8/8/07

What’s behind and what’s
ahead, these echoes make it
difficult to say.

8/7/07

A cricket keeps me
from sleep—his alarm turns on
when I walk away.

8/6/07

The quiet after
coffee—the machine stops and
waits to be addressed.

8/5/07

Could anyone sit
and make one thousand haiku
without a window?

8/4/07

Overhead, the L
travels as planned, steel grinding
steel without a spark.

8/3/07

The bedside table
stacked with books—each quietly
begging for the peak.

8/2/07

Flowers on the way
to work smell either like perfume
or putrefaction.

8/1/07

We need rockets to
assess the drawing we’ve been
working on so long.

7/31/07

Running late, he weaved
through strollers on the sidewalk,
flipping babies off.

7/30/07

Yesterday clutter
withdrew to bedrooms. Now it
flows in like the tide.

7/29/07

I try not to read
anger in lightning, thunder,
and rain that’s solid.

7/28/07

No one but me saw
enough molecules move to
make a pillow fall.

7/27/07

If you listen you
will hear the other sirens
you’ve stopped heeding.

7/26/07

The computer age—
even silence secretly
whirs in the background.

7/25/07

Spitting city rain
riddles the sidewalk with spots
of ghost animals.

7/24/07

Outside, leaves recoiled
in the hard rain as if shot
just to rise again.

7/23/07

Honeysuckle breeze:
are they somewhere unseen or
in my memory?

7/22/07

Nothing moves under
this flat white sky–summer’s glue
never seems to set.

7/21/07

Allowing myself
one cookie, I channeled
the mind of a mouse.

7/20/07

A cardinal surprised
me at dawn, but red was his
color all night long.

7/19/07

The sun focuses
trembling daylight through a lens
between ragged leaves.

7/18/07

My dream runs over—
the wind has turned—I smell
the chocolate factory.

7/17/07

Places are sacred
by nevers, and the nevers
are running out.

7/16/07

Our windows open,
I heard infants in the deep
background, singing.

7/15/07

The dawn sky looked gray
but was blue—the sun was slow
reading the forecast.

7/14/07

More lines at Starbucks—
how do people learn to love
something so bitter?

7/13/07

Light from both windows
draws zones of shadow—darkest
where they overlap.

7/12/07

While everyone
is away—I’m meeting
the objects around me.

7/11/07

Another rainy
evening drips into a
heart slowing rhythm.

7/10/07

The white bag a tree
caught last winter shifts like a
ghost trapped amid leaves.

7/9/07

You don’t notice birds—
what eyes slip past you, noting
you invisibly?

7/8/07

Acres of zeroes
and ones—cut in shapes fit to
dissolve in black seas.

7/7/07

Imagine the mail
from your lifetime—all of it—
arriving today.

7/6/07

I walked into shade—
my eyes dimmed, the air was
already occupied.

7/5/07

Spring birdsongs are gone—
now it’s one pigeon’s throaty
worry all day long.

7/4/07

What reflects light and
what absorbs and emits it—
duty and desire.

7/3/07

The prism unbaked
light, leaving ingredients
layered on the wall.

7/2/07

I took out a pencil
to draw the static behind
every city sound.

7/1/07

Early fireworks—
as if night itself were
unspent gunpowder.

6/30/07

I saw a child doze
as a stroller dragged his
shadow along streets.

6/29/07

Power lines—silver
web slung by spiders leaping
pole to pole to pole.

6/28/07

All the leaves open
overhead—each hand covers
a star, green for white.

6/27/07

Across the kitchen—
a cherry popsicle, my
daughter’s bright pucker.

6/26/07

A horses’s coat twitches—
lightning on a distant range—
muscular landscape.

6/25/07

Umbrellas open,
bus riders leap into rain
like paratroopers.

6/24/07

Substitute monkeys
for pigeons, canopies of
leaves for smoky skies.

6/23/07

A litmus morning:
gray, pink, purple chalk—apex
to horizon.

6/22/07

Sitting on the L
thinking: what if this train were
a rollercoaster?

6/21/07

Beginning the day
searching my instruments for
a bell that still sounds.

6/20/07

My mind leaves memories
with each step—why does no one
say, “You dropped something”?

6/19/07

Right now, in a book
the word “ship” bruises its dock
with steady rocking.

6/18/07

I searched for haiku
between cushions and under
rugs—but they’d just gone.

6/17/07

A fork balanced on
the edge of a plate, rattling
as our steps returned.

6/16/07

Shadows fall amid
branches and leaves—the trees are
keeping their darkness.

6/15/07

Overhead planes slice
into blue dusk—the pink scars
clues to surgery.

6/14/07

Bright beach umbrellas,
purple, red, blue, yellow—pitched
coins on the khaki shore.

6/13/07

The clouds rest along
the skyline—white pillows cast
to soften hard rain.

6/12/07

The hose spread topsoil
on the sidewalk in a fan
of inky powder.

6/11/07

Air cools just before
dawn—the last few moments
under cover.

6/10/07

An art fair visit
ended and—my eyes alive—
walls were beautiful.

6/9/07

Imagining if
everything were real estate
and nothing unclaimed—

6/8/07

At graduaton—
black robes of rank and colored
hoods baked by hot air.

6/7/07

Gusts startle the trees.
A wind up from the south steals
some of the new leaves.

6/6/07

Empty a school and
voices seep from everything,
leaving timidly.

6/5/07

Before I awoke
I heard rain without feeling
any tears falling.

6/4/07

On the floor I found
your keys—turned up and bristling
like a dwarf hedgehog.

6/3/07

Yesterday’s wind died—
trees wait for rain, shifting in
the gray and still sky.

6/2/07

Outside the AC
grumbles to life, awakening
sighing inside.

6/1/07

No step is really
like the last—each another
setting forth again.

5/31/07

Every seventeen
summers, cicada study
the world like winged eyes.

5/30/07

Writing school’s last days—
my pen ready to copy
new light into day.

5/29/07

Morning sun pulls loose
from the horizon, stands, and
stares with its pink eye.

5/28/07

Do people still walk
outside my window? New leaves
won’t let me see them.

5/27/07

Trees are full again—
streets daubed with green paint, bleeding
black oil beneath.

5/26/07

When I miss rain, I
search for signs—where it pooled and
evaporated.

5/25/07

Serendipity—
chaos aligned—broken glass
assembling bottles.

5/24/07

Her shouts echo down
corridors of buildings, glancing
off everything.

5/23/07

The letters blink out
and “supermarket” isn’t
so very super.

5/22/07

At every inter-
section, I lose ground to a
traffic matador.

5/21/07

No sleep and a song
stuck in my head—in my head,
looping loopily.

5/20/07

The wind gusts, and sand—
like time freed from an hour glass—
lands in a strange spot.

5/19/07

A bat flew into
the light of the stadium,
his wings a gray blur.

5/18/07

Then pedestrians
moved as a herd—each tethered
invisibly.

5/17/07

A flower in new
construction—single amid
multiplicity.

5/16/07

Shadows reflected
on the window fooled me—no,
no one was inside.

5/15/07

I’m up too early
again with the ghost of sleep
as my company.

5/14/07

A white sun becomes
pink—shadows crawl back to hide
behind sleeping shapes.

5/13/07

Bruises bloomed under
the injury—like ripe plums
just under the skin.

5/12/07

Haiku written from
behind my window—flat like
the landscape outside.

5/11/07

New leaves on trees turn
lazily to the sun, so
reluctant to learn.

5/10/07

Nothing to intrude
between my eye and the moon—
two cousins meeting.

5/9/07

Some days everything
sounds like a translation from
an invented tongue.

5/8/07

Workers pausing to
laugh, their tools set aside as
the sun steals shadows.

5/7/07

It rains—another
layer of fallen petals
sticks to the sidewalk.

5/6/07

Inside my camera,
the unseen record of growth—
proof of what it was.

5/5/07

Hearing passing cars—
their shouts unchecked—untroubled
we are listening.

5/4/07

Illumination
fans from a door just cracked to
let light spread its arms.

5/3/07

Put silverware up
together—spoons and forks know
each other’s uses.

5/2/07

An animal life—
Find water then mark the world
with your own water.

5/1/07

Mechanical cranes—
head and hand whipping around
to guard stolen earth.

4/30/07

Afternoon’s burly
warmth drags me toward sleep—really,
must I fight back?

4/29/07

Along the Lakeshore,
a runner passed by others
speeding up each time.

4/28/07

Maybe a music
rests between notes, and the notes
are interrupting.

4/27/07

One of five, the fourth,
the second son—all of us
limbs of one body.

4/26/07

No pattern in rain
on the roof—and I can’t stop
noticing the sound.

4/25/07

The earth is flatter,
harder, and entirely
strange in my new shoes.

4/24/07

Trees green by degrees—
early lime, later hunter—
absorbing shadows.

4/23/07

I heard birds’ voices
die—the frayed edges of
pleas in other tongues.

4/22/07

Some men thicken like
suns—gathering gravity
as they burn inside.

4/21/07

The city bird’s song
steals color from dreams to paint
another morning.

4/20/07

My rising troubles:
stuck in bed, my head under
the horizon.

4/19/07

I picture nature
without us, pulling buildings
down to show the sky.

4/18/07

Across the street and
through the window, she shouts
at her phone—or me.

4/17/07

All their empty shoes
waiting in closets, mouths open,
just before tears.

4/16/07

Aircraft blinking in
the new darkness—the city’s
first stars, roaming.

4/15/07

Newspapers arrive
unnoticed—dropped like fish caught
in a foreign sea.

4/14/07

Buildings’ faces stare,
unblinking. at each other—
I walk unnoticed.

4/13/07

Rain comes and goes, and
I abandon umbrellas
to show where it’s been.

4/12/07

A sky crowded with
April snow dashes itself
against black, wet streets.

4/11/07

When you rise early
morning is night, the darkness
just where you left it.

4/10/07

The least breeze ruffles
babies’ hair—another hand—
playful and benign.

4/9/07

Just awake, I thought
of visitors gathering,
waiting to come in.

4/8/07

Sprouting from the face
of a tree stump, three shoots spread
new leaves to the sun.

4/7/07

Forsythia—yellow
petals sprout like new wings to
carry winter off.

4/6/07

Confetti litters
my writing desk—all of it
extra syllables.

4/5/07

Today lost objects
on chairs, ledges, and floors will
stand up and walk home.

4/4/07

As storms near, the wind
shakes my chimney top, squealing
like wheels on a curve.

4/3/07

Blinds stripe the couch that
pins the carpet, and the earth
rolls one time more

4/2/07

Televisions flash
in windows across the street
like mute fireworks.

4/1/07

Turning earth again—
sunning soil and watching steam
walk in open air.

3/31/07

A green haze gathers
on distant trees—a shy start
to changing costumes.

3/30/07

The edges of a wound
like a map’s coastline—jagged, un-
reconcilable.

3/29/07

I stopped splitting wood
to shout the tunneled speeches
hidden under bark.

3/28/07

Clenching my eyes tight,
I see bouquets of purple
fists amid black leaves.

3/27/07

My windshield rouses
vague shapes—looming watermarks
from fog’s gray pages.

3/26/07

Avenues usher
dutiful, straight-walking trees
into cross traffic.

3/25/07

My son says time swims—
not flies—something restains it,
currents we can’t see.

3/24/07

I crowd the landscape
With what my haiku lit and
And then left burning.

3/23/07

Another milky sky—
The sun hides, shadows flee in
ghostly surrender.

3/22/07

The street wet, the sky
wet—getting up to more
wash, more gray water.

3/21/07

My snoring woke me
from a dream where something was
sawing its way out.

Here are haiku moved from my old blog:

Watery sunlight
casts silver shadows on the walk as
we crawl homeward.

Every few minutes
trains pass, each time saying
something different.

Habits I love and
hate equally laugh just out
of my longest reach.

Resolution time:
dim windows, black branches
against a pink dawn.

I’ve been watching frost
in the city melt along
receding shadows.

Of everything lost
something persists—your footprints
under the snow.

It’s January–
I hear a car’s fan belts seethe
like a cicada.

Pushed to the edges,
everything on the table
hangs into open air.

Tell me, are the same
birds on the fence this morning
or do I see ghosts?

Breakfast banana:
removing my gloves to eat,
the train takes the curve.

Rain, snow, rain and then
snow again–choosing whether
to cry or shut up.

I dreamt I spoke to
the whole planet and no one
had to move to hear.

Some amphibian
inside my coffee maker
croaks its last love song.

Winter branches dip
into streetlamps. Their fingers warm
to the golden light.

I have never seen
plum blossoms outside pages
of purple haiku.

My streetlight shadows
multiplied until I saw
an entourage.

Counting syllables—
the ricochet of drips on
the edge of a glass.

Seeing the sidewalk
through wavy panes, crowds in one
twisted tapestry.

She started fearing
what she couldn’t imagine,
and, soon, everything.

The angry rumble
of the L overhead. Rust
mingling with snow.

If atoms became
estranged, morning fog might sweep
my body away.

A line of zealots.
Crows grip the sagging wire
and glare at the sun.

Disproportionate:
the number we have for
the number we are.

What is a flower—
hand or face? We look for its
eyes and feel fingers.

Beside the door are
shoes standing on each other,
climbing who knows where.

Here is a word for
your reconsideration:
assent.

The books that once stood
slouch on their edges, split at
another lost page.

One day the ground hog
is the celebrity famed
for being unholed.

A blinking cursor,
the heater kicks on, and
a cup of coffee.

The 700th
haiku is no milestone and
no millstone either.

So cold, metal stings:
The night freezes black. The sun
strangles in the air.

Call machines heartless
their rhythms fill every still
moment of the day.

The words blur–they will
stand in line, but they can’t keep
spaces between them.

This morning it was so
cold the air cracked and wind flew
by like broken glass.

The bleach of winter
salt and sun, leafless, lifeless,
ready for dying.

Faces seen sideways,
the curves of planets spied from
unvisited space.

Then a chill settles
in a glance, and no one sees
you standing in snow.

A giant who eats
not to shrink, a runner who
sees resting as dying.

This is all I want:
Sun to love what it shines on,
God to drop low.

One in one hundred
words heard, one in one thousand
snowflakes reaching earth.