Haiku! I had heard of her. An inscrutable touchstone of feeling tucked away among foreign habits. We became intimate once introduced one whisky-worded night under the moon.  Over the course of a few intervening years, I behold more and more of her as she sheds for me the silken veils of her captors.
I do not mind her present promiscuity.  That is only to be expected after her centuries of confinement behind bamboo curtains.  Honour-bent men restrained her wild spirit by sublimating it into an aesthetic of tightness.  Mere suggestions of the blood-fury seething within.
The muse, so long hidden away, teases words from my reluctant voice to give shape to the silence and the darkness drowning in the present age.
these words
a peninsula
of almosts