In my most black and white days,
she was technicolor. She was my Marilyn.
Our world – saturated color, a yellow road,
fantasia, music surrounded us like in movies.
Until she was gone with the wind.
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
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.