In the haiku houses on Sweet-Meadowlark-Lane I heard your name whispered like rain falling in a faraway darkness. It was a holy name, an only name, to chant in silences of seventeen syllables.
Why didn't you call me? I wanted you to call me; it was Sunday and your mother was at church. I wanted you to call me; we could have fallen in love, danced in the rain, even written a long poem together.