CHRIS GORDON Haiku 21 an anthology of contemporary English-language haiku

October 16, 2013 § Leave a comment

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a love letter to the butterfly gods with strategic misspellings

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avoiding definitions we stroke the tender leaves of the maple

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later you realize it was actually a part of your own body

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where the lines end and the absence begins an architecture or so

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parked ahead of us someone watches the air a syrup

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the rain drips quickly on the white pavement lowfatdeathcamp

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Anorexia plus Silicon

June gets a bruise

then it starts to rain

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twilight those children shout the names of their dogs Freeway and Tequila

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spiders settling in where my habits where away the edges

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I meet the twin she

never mentioned the mist

lit briefly by the sun

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which part of me gets which part of you suddenly it’s spring

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dusk turns gray and

hazy and breaks off into

several angry girls

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leaf shadows on

the ground sway from

the secrets of war

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all the sticks

sharpened differently the moon

has stained your gloves

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she’s reaching for the red

chicken something passes

in front of the sun

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when the rain stops

you find me in the apple

packing my bags

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things I did with my hand show up as dead skin

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