She said to me: "your ode to the moon
is a bird pecking frantically
at light in a dirty puddle –
futile but for its shit on the pavement,
which was at least warmer and brighter,
than anything you had to say."
And I turned the words over in my hand –
what I had imagined was a sparrow –
was indeed without life,
its fluttering not a heartbeat nor untested wings,
but the wind blowing scraps of fortune cookie tropes
from the empty nest of my pages.
The terrible sound that followed –
like endless boxcars empty of thought
rattling across the plains –
the sky a million points of darkness
as locusts of Haiku descended, ravaging
and leaving only stubble in their wake.
The Sunday Muse