half a haiku
the morning
already ancient
I wake from my nap screaming. In the dream, my half-naked poem is nailed to the cross, surrounded by a cheering crowd. A critic begins beating it with a hose, trying to torture a confession of its meaning from it. My poem cries out in anguish.
midnight moon
the only thing moving
my right hand
A Hundred Gourds, 2:2, March 2013