Haiku Death Match — Fish


fly buzzes in sky
whipping back and forth above
dancing on the line


big ol’ fat salmon
leaping high and breathing hard
in familiar streams


heron hunts minnows
in the tall salt marsh grasses
sunset paints him pink


the well-schooled tuna
tack across the swift current
ships in battle line


delicate hot pink
wrapped in pearlescent whiteness
and thin strip of green


silence at table:
“I think you have two sevens”
No? I’ll draw a card.


nets nearly bursting
on the wrong side of the boat
and man on the shore.


South Street Seaport blues:
the fish market’s been replaced
by these retail traps


invisible line
wobbles toward infinity
above the water


ancient red-cap carp
swimming in the palace pond
dreaming he’s Basho.

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