I was satisfied with haiku until I met you,

jar of octopus, cuckoo’s cry, 5-7-5,

but now I want a Russian novel ,

a 50-page description of you sleeping,

another 75 of what you think staring out

a window. I don’t care about the plot

although I suppose there will have to be one,

the usual separation of lovers, turbulent

seas, danger of decommission in spite

of constant war, time gulps and glitches

passing, squibs of threnody, a fallen nest,

speckled eggs somehow uncrushed, the sled

outracing the wolves on the steppes , the huge

glittering ball where all that matters

is a kiss at the end of a dark hall.

At dawn the officers ride back to the garrison,

one without a glove, the entire last chapter

about a necklace that couldn’t be worn

inherited by a grand-niece

along with the love letters bound in silk.

~ Dean Young, from Fall Higher