B. H. BOSTON
No Haiku
for Ali Silverstein
Something enormous and invisible
rustles in the fig where the five raccoons
fed and stared out at midnight a week ago.
Looking up from I had forgotten
the bald woman, I find starlings
and sparrows rifling the branches
near the fenceline and open canyon,
the wavering midday August air.
No cat's eyes under hopseeds this Tuesday. 
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