— Pushpa MacFarlane

the moon hangs low, bold
in the night sky—a croissant
for my morning spread


light infiltrates slats,
shadows sneak, play hide and seek—
mice in the pantry


strange bird sounds breeze through
wind chimes between giant palms—
nesting fledglings cheep


a dog scoffs the wind
as it rustles past, teasing—
the cat’s off the hook


leaps past the clocks into night.
I’ve lost my morning


an array of words
sprayed like rice at a wedding.
haikus for dessert


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