Haiku #40

How the summer sings
Bare pleasures and shy flowers
Until their fruit falls.

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Expatriate

I am an American
visiting America
from far away,
where I live now.

The billboards, vitrines, and passersby
do not speak to me anymore,
if ever they tried.
It’s hard to remember.

The streets are full of blare
and bustle whose logic tastes
of nostalgia—and the where
of here no longer feels quite
like a place.