on a wet early spring day
i crossed the dewy path
to a furnace-warmed café.
on the cherry blossom-strewn ground
i caught sight of my reflection in the
i heard saxophones, pianos,
sultry brass and heartbending notes
that soar and dive like the weight of a frost-dampened
precariously hanging on the edge of
a windy bus stop bench.
a million lonely sounds
only murmured by the winter.
skeleton caved a little;
loneliness caught my aching pulse again
on this rainy monday in march.
here in japan, i am always alone, you see.
even when surrounded by kind people,
even when you hold me in my memories,
even when i stand in front of
my ancestors’ house.
i live on musashi’s hill
above the tumbling white river;
but i can never