TADIOTO

tokyo in those early days of the millenium
was a cemetery where i buried myself

underneath the falling blossoms

we are inspired to silence
the ghosts of incendiary bombs
underneath the earth’s surface
marked now by kanji characters

not telling me when anyone died
or why

we’ve become mute ourselves—dead
and blind to each other’s life,
trusting the crows at meiji park
with the memories of many summers ago.

I gave myself to the cold of your city
waiting under the surviving trees
like the celebrated dog
faithful by the entrance to the train station
while crows cling to branches
spreading like sunrays against the colourless sky

despite the stubborn rain that wet everything
the evening we went in vain
searching for a place
to recharge your phone and renew our belief

in the possibility of love

birds live and die
without blaming circumstances

above the alleys of iidabashi
more crows balance themselves on black wires
like ropes keeping the sky out

I hear you still, muffled in our room
at the shinjuku hotel, your legs dangling over the bed
like ropes waiting for someone’s suicide.

later at the hotel above tokyo station
we laughed at how small the room was
and how small the commuters seemed
anxious, wordless ants below our window,
until we recognized the trains

repeating themselves

and us, unable one last time to say
what still mattered.