Late, I am too late
to Sunday’s haiku party.
Belatedly late.


io sono sola,
she said, and i knew only
too well what she meant

boiled cabbage; in
rolls at ukrainian christmas;
salted sauerkraut

piled high on sausage;
braised with apples at harvest;
smells like old lady

now in my kitchen

I’m wondering what
Phyllis Schlafly thinks about
a term like chick-lit.

Saccharine nonsense?
Or, secret guilty pleasure?
Read late at night, hair/

passions loose, dreams of
subversive trysts and toweled
boys in cabanas…?

Well-behaved children,
perched, mindful attentive pups.
What ruckus within?

Amelia Street.
Six forty-seven am.
Leash in hand, Tuesday.

Blooms leaden, heavy
with dew of yesterday’s storm;
soggy, petal piles.

I think of our last
autumn together, eggplant
cabbages with mauve

centres in planters
on the sidewalk, noticing
we no longer held

hands as we passed by.
August now, but the air hangs
with that same rotting

slowness as though it
were fall, as though the end of
another season.

I don’t remember
when I stopped loving you, when
I ever loved you.

sudoku challenge
rearrange, arrange again
nine by nine, one to

nine. i fill you in
like weighing change on the wind,
oh, sudoku life.

add up: measure up
each number her own place in
line. till snap! to grid!

one to a column,
one to a row. it’s bad luck
to fill the last square.

Bangs, you were such a
good idea at the time.
Now, follicular
curse.  Please grow out with
a little dignity and
grace, would you?  Yours, Scalp.
You’re tangerine when
cooked, soft pink on the inside,
omega 3 bliss.
eye contact over
grandes at king and yonge; (she)
then you looked away