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David Caruso


where bruises were . . .
a heart-shaped tattoo
bears his name


my father’s voice
it trembles
over the phone . . .
it reaches my ear
it doesn’t
(Prior publication: Ribbons)
​
​

mixed-up
the pen's ink
my father's shadow


ocean sunset . . .
deep enough
beneath the surface
such a thing
doesn’t matter


summer harvest
the poor girl’s doll
has corn-silk hair


even that rainbow
looks pale behind you


some cross you for love
some for freedom, some for fame
but you look away
you rolling river
toward the wide Missouri


where teeth once were . . .
the prisoner’s blade
beneath his pillow


between her breasts
the dollar bill
beneath her daughter’s pillow
(Prior publication: Modern Haiku)


Picture


​David Caruso Profile

tenderness . . .
i touch her face
with all ten fingers


tree climbing
the smallest child
the highest up
(Prior publication: The Saturday Evening Post)

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