Sweat flicks down my neck;
black snake sleeps in woodpile shade,
  long burnt breath of June.

  Wild poet with ghost!
My sleeves shout with dust for beer,
  my eyes, smoke and flame.

  Bamboo bends under
monsoon winds pushing back black
  clouds when... summer moon.

  Nothing in the sigh
of tradewinds through these palm trees
  gets stuck in this ink.

  From heaven I write
haiku to hell and back so
  close your eyes and read.

  These roads cut through maps
as well as through thick and thin;
  no heart, no passport.

  Travelling beyond
smudged maps and Spring’s pine I sip
  wild tea and soul tides.