in the kyllinga fields
we picked wildflowers that nobody else could see
we weaved them into our hair
pressed them between the pages of our memory
I wonder what it must be like driving an empty taxi on a long stretch of a dead street in the silent hours of the night. It’s that time of the night when the world is still, so still. Except for the barest of breezes, the faintest trilling of insects, and the lingering scent of ash and burnt chemicals mixed with the fading fragrance of the tembusus. What is it like inside the head of a taxi driver working the midnight shift and prowling the empty heartland streets? Does he/she feel at one with the universe, or completely alone in it?
Again, she’s up late clicking absently between tabs, as if the answers she needs lie in the internet. But none are forthcoming.
in evening sun,
tembusus stand like old gods,
arms raised to the sky
hark the two nightjars
somewhere out in those dark woods
just going at it
the fact you don’t see
something’s wrong, proves it wasn’t
right in the first place
you taught me to hate
when you first taught me to love
hypothetic’lly
a storm is coming
the birds feel it in their wings
give squawks of dismay
Haikus, they’re all that
I seem to write nowadays.
Refrigerator.
the Sea Apple trees
armed with their cream-white blossoms
line the streets with grace