Site icon A Hundred Falling Veils

haiku for a sacred barroom

please kiss them
my palms, I’ve emptied them
in case

*

twilight
everything glazed with shine—
your hum

*

the wind
never asks when it touches me
there

*

these hands, two white birds,
your skin
the sky

*

soft breeze
my longing
grows longer

*

slipping out
of my excuses into something
more comfortable

*

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