Haiku for Adulthood: On Not Settling 3


This love is worse. Since

it can’t be confirmed, it can

never be denied.



I’d no sooner be

your Mistress than the sun would

stop at horizon.



Can’t you see, love, we

were spared the froth flame bruise-blue

ugliness of time?



 The first letters of

our names spell “yes” in Russian.

No question was asked.



Time’s cruel gimmick:

Eternity exists, but only

as a feeling.



(e.e. cummings-esque?)

This love is no noun,

No, now—a monsoon, gone soon

in all ways, always.


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