Late Night Haiku XLIII

By Tim Butler | Posted at 22:52

CXXII. The silent word cuts
As no finely tuned phrase could.
Razor sharp, not quick.

CXXIII. A leaf, a cricket,
An empty cafe chair rusts a bit
In the summer's haze.

CXXIV. What was, was not really,
Or was it what it seemed?
An answer deferred.


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