[poems 4 and 5 of 30/30]
it’s not you, it’s me ::: three haiku
My gold pumps
should guarantee that
my bed holds
two brown chests
soft with shea butter,
not just mine,
but my strut
ain’t mean enough to
make him love.
an exercise
What a blinding blizzard!
Thick crusts of white
lining barks, sheets
of razor flakes caking
glass white, blotting suns,
breaking boughs, veiling white
the eyes of stars muddled
in the viscous grey of night
White sprays of waves
glacier from the lake, scrape
high onto the Drive, daring white
lines lining lanes to shine
up through the white as a flight
of cars break the curve
What a titanic storm!
So wholly blown white
I cannot see a thing
at all