The Fatalist

Traffic in a far distance,
Autumnal walks in mulch.
I close my eyes and make believe

Those engines are the sound of great waves
Turning on your distant shore,
Where Jura-soul enfolded shoals

Find a foreign form.
Just as I closed my eyes, too,
When for a first time I was struck,

Two contusions, and blinding sores,
Then, I imagined I was deported into a land
Of hair-brained herbivorous dinosaurs

And manticores with massive horns
And grainy giant mammoth jaws.
In front of my mustard eyes

It is always November and raining,
And too often of late
I am straining

To recall
Why I ever
Rewound the parts of it all.

Too often of late
I have found myself
Accepting my fate,

As I close my eyes,
To wait,
And wait.

Haiku #569 – #574

569.

There’s no need, dismayed,
I guess I was always this way.
Inevitably,

570.

You used to say,
As inevitable as
Ice, December lake,

571.

Before cracks appeared.
Seven unopened presents,
One a year I bought.

572.

A jigsaw puzzle
Of scenes I don’t recognise,
With a missing piece.

573.

It’s ok, don’t say it,
I know when I’m wallowing
See it in my veins.

574.

I’ll not lose an arm;
My three existential limbs
I’ve already lost.