No words

but the blazing

as when oblique sun 

grazes the page.

Secret words

thrum, hidden, fretted

strands of your song enduring 

small in the wind’s memory.


Take the nail scissors

we used today to cut

the haiku back to its exquisite 

bones. Hide them in your hem.

One day, if you want to escape,

their sharp teeth at your thighs

will remind you of blades 

in the cake, skeleton keys

your fingers tap, the outlaw’s face

wind-stretched as she rides

the horse made of metaphor.