The tympanal clicks in the hottest hours
counting out a song in another language.
One of mating, and not of love,
that I know well and repeat myself
in the five seven of this poem.
Two Haiku by Basho
Nothing in the cry
of cicadas suggests they
are about to die
a single cicada’s cry
sinking into stone
Shakespeare at Dusk by Edward Hopper
Standing motionless, daylight turns twilight, he watches
her walk into the edge of darkness.
She spoke to him of a love
made from the fume of her sighs.
He, wordless, but for those already spoken.
There are 1440 minutes in a day.
The nurse tells me my heart beats
80 times per minute – 115,200 a day.
So many moments, exacting products of distance
multiplied by the charge of absent love.
* Though a “moment” is an inexact measure of time, in physics, it is something that can be calculated using a formula.
Walking through, you too are on display.
All of us, visitors, observing, studying, interpreting
what we see, trying to find meaning
and connection. I quietly study you studying.
And I pencil sketch our life together.
and then she turned sharply to me
and said, “Do you still love me?”
as if this was on the quiet path
where we were slowly walking our words.
Not from fears or doubt , but anger.