Haiku
By: Kenneth White
My wife just sent me a text message from Venus.
Mar’s reception sucks.
The church steeple chimes old hymns through the thunderstorm. Sundays drip through clouds.
My quivering lips
reach across light years of pain
just to French kiss stars.
Somewhere there’s a mic
I caressed and kissed tonight,
echoing my name.
HPS Magazine 