Thursday, September 13, 2012

Three Rivers

Clear water.

One empties the pantry.
One empties the town.
One empties the self.

1 comment:

Dr. Mike said...


An incremental
Whittling down to splinters gives
Time its sharp edge.

Miniscule as motes,
Like dark spiders in sunlight,
Webs of music throb.

There, against the pulse,
To stand out, a human song
Or scream writhes its tail.

The intruder alters threads
Until no harp plays.

[Disposable Haiku September 13, 2012]
Dr. Mike