loneliness
doesn't have a tongue –
it speaks
through a dripping faucet
and the tempest in my mind
A Hundred Gourds, 4:4, September 2015
A Room of My Own: Bitter Sting Tanka
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Two Hundred and Thirty-Ninth Entry, Coronavirus Poetry Diary
the bitter sting
of late night black coffee ...
quarantined
for weeks without thoughts
of touc...
