haikoan published in Right Hand Pointing

 



can you recall the first poem to see you

 

why is a luna moth in eclipse

beyond my grasp

 

how did the smell of rain arrive on earth


(Issue 141, 2020)



where is the grave of the autumn

 from which i never returned


how old is the light that cannot support

the weight of falling leaves


when a milkweed path passes in the dark

shall i be lifted up


(Issue 146, 2022)



by what thread will i spin when the sun unravels


will the last of my bodies fly away with the geese


knowing your purpose is the fall of rain

how gently can you live


(Issue 146, 2022)




(query i)

 

who has never written an

unbreakable thread—never

 

touched the stone inside god

 

who is the garden

disguised as the wind


(Issue 150, 2023)

 

 

(query ii)

 

whose womb is the sum of all our blood

 

whose dust is an iron bar

 

how hungry is a wound

that swallows the dark


(Issue 150, 2023)

 

 


 

(query iii)

 

when do the dead break into light

 

when did our poems cease writing the sea

 

how many abandoned awakenings

sleep inside a seed


(Issue 150, 2023)

 

 

(query iv)

 

who drove cemeteries of sight into my eyes

 

whose sleep is the house of the dead

 

whose cry cannot escape

            the moon sewn shut with rain


(Issue 150, 2023)





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