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.