a drop of sweat
today's moon -- will anyone not be taking up his pen?
people in each window--
a lawn freshly mowed
lies between us
I'd just spent time analyzing my troublesome laptop with a computer tech, online, in the winter of 2014. This guy was different than any I'd spoken to before. He'd just recommended a competitor over his own software. I wanted to know more about the man.
"Where are you from, friend?"
"Ukraine."
His tone belied a weight as though burdened with some
calculation - I'd heard of trouble. Not many others had. I couldn't quite phrase the question,
fresh on my mind, uncertain as I was in how to frame it.
All I could muster was to ask about the weather. Where I live, we boast of our Latitude, as though it's some great fete to survive such
extremes.
Maidan -
the technician reports,
"it's cold as fuck"
November --
countless raindrops to measure
the length of a day
a veil of frost
tints Johari's window
ranks of children
prone and obedient
to a flickering image
Lebensraum,
a none too distant dream
Dear haiku friends,