Fat clouds perch atop
The skyscrapers. I look up –
Face splattered with rain.
But Basho writes, “The secret of poetry lies in treading the middle path between the reality and vacuity of the world.” Maybe some undergraduate poetry student could write a decent 5-point essay about the rain making the middle path disappear. Maybe it’s true. But that’s not how you’re supposed to be reading a haiku.
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