107. A haiku on the bottom thoroughly dropping out (see also: the stomach doesn't lie).

There is not a thing
That can brace for the moment
You see him with her.

106.

In Massachusetts,
it has not yet snowed
this winter.
We have not fallen asleep
to the sound of steam
trying to escape
my bedroom radiator,
nor have we woken
to cinnamon coffee
and french toast.
There is nothing about this
January that I recognize.
But I'm trying
to make it home.

105. The second haiku I have ever written: For the measurements of rebirth.

There are many things
I will move past with fervor.
But not this, not this.

104.

At seven and a half weeks
I have accumulated a list of small
changes. I am telling more
of the truth. I stain my lips
the color of raspberries.
Talk to strangers on the train.
Do not return their calls.
I stay up too late, but nearly sleep
through the night.
   It's all very trivial.

It has been long enough now.
It has not been long enough now.

The views tilt slightly, and
I imagine that you are trying to see me
as the villain. I'm not.
I'm not the hero either.

I am not covered in feathers,
nor scales. Much of the time
I am grossly human,
pointing out planets and taking
great pleasure in discussing
the scientific theories of bees,
and the possible shapes of the universe.
Once, you loved these things
about me.

When you read my letter,
did you whisper back?
Was the room flooded in light?
Or was it late, nearly midnight,
was it dark and were you
sorry?

You always said you admired my ability
to forgive. Unfortunately, for lovers
who have left me and later sought
resurrection, it was this same forgiveness
that had me say
                       no.
I owe forgiveness my life, you see.

103. A haiku for the measurements of death.

You may be the moon
But I have long extended
Far beyond my means

One-hundred and two.

The body will tell you
when something is wrong.

Sacrifice itself to push
you back onto the correct
artery.

I have been healthy
since November.

Now, tell me what you think
about coincidence

and the geese
that fly south
in winter.

One-hundred and one.

You find a picture
of your lover smoking a cigarette,
and the only appropriate thoughts
are, Who is this person, and,
What else do I not know about him.

Did you know that there is a form of grief
that actually makes a person vomit?

Say you can only have one
as your heart's companion. Lantern
or compass.

Choose. Wait
for it to be finished.