Seventeen haiku by Andrew Hamlin

Heat of the blanket,

cool of the pillow...

long sun

Low sun...

the fact of flies

on ferns

Two thumbs

to the weave of the sock...

cold sun

Cap and gown,

she boards the bus...

by the bums

Birdsong...

squawk anxious

at the fire engine

In twilight

I become...

the crow’s caw

“Flag Day”

reads my phone...

unassuming

The night...rich...

the tide, stolen half

of the wind

A broken heart...

and a little girl

with a stuffed seal

Broken

down; green bow

on her backpack

Spring,

curly red hair—

overhead catch

Cold room

cannot quell...

lilies in a pot

Pond...

frog plop scrambles

summer moon

Bus glass, low sun...

“Exit” backwards

on her skin

Pigeon,

head-bobs implacable...

tunnel station

Cold breeze...

old man holds out his hand

from the bench

Gnat

at the emperor’s tomb,

expects company

Andrew Hamlin

Andrew Hamlin likes to photograph shoes and write about dog shit. He was born and raised in Seattle, where he resides today. He attended the Evergreen State College, where he wrote and edited arts coverage for the Cooper Point Journal. He is the film critic for the Northwest Asian Weekly, and he’s published arts coverage and criticism in the San Diego Reader, Village Voice, Seattle Times, Seattle Weekly, Goldmine, and other publications. He misses Helen Wiggin. Hamlin’s website is www.andrewhamlin.org.