The last time it was sunny was the first
full day we spent together in Japan.
It started with a cigarette, a burst
of flame, a yellow lighter, your right hand.
Another puff at Denny’s. Maybe two
o’clock we stopped to read a sign inside
Shinjuku Park: “shin” meaning “new.”
I pointed to the character with pride.
You laughed. The cherry blossoms were not gone:
beneath those black, twisted boughs there lay
these soggy little pastel piles. How long
they looked like crumpled Kleenex, I can’t say.
To me, that afternoon seems like the last
nice day on Earth. It’s been so overcast.
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