Four Haiku for the Buck Moon

We come to ourselves;
patterns repeat as patterns—
You, me, each our own.
*
And then we grow up—
Almost as if we planned it:
earth’s procreant urge.
*
I’m too drunk to think
beyond the now of this page—
Who am I to doubt?
*
I desire you still,
to hear your voice in laughter—
to begin again.

(July 18, 2016)

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