I ride to Shinjuku on the local train

This tale has already begun—

I’m on a moving train

and my ticket says “no stopovers”

Until I see your figure

appear at the station gate

I go on stacking blocks of time

You hurry to me from work,

on your shoulder a golden thread—

a badge of masculinity

Wind at the night game

brushes against your profile

lit the color of grapefruit

Leaving on the platform only

my longing to stay with you,

I board the last train

I study the picture postcard

you sent on your business trip—

like a photo for an alibi

As you take out a handkerchief

a summer butterfly perches

on the plaid of your cotton shirt

“This tastes great,” you said and so

the sixth of July—

our salad anniversary

Toast turning golden brown,

and in my room the air

turning slowly into summer

Snapping a shirt smartly

to take out the wrinkles

my heart sparkles white in the sun

Twilight Alley

At the speed of the spreading sunset

croquettes in the back of the

butcher shop

fry a golden brown

Chinese cabbages with red sashes

side by side at the shopfront

preening and tittering

As if covered all over with

little-girl fingernails

sea bream shine at the fish shop

In the middle of the night

canned green peas

whisper “open up, open up”

Amid the pale blue of small bills

cabbages are laughing—

here in Twilight Alley

My Bisymmetrical Self

Deciding to return home to live

I close my eyes to a furtive whisper:

“Sad, sad”

Time flows on…

laden with misgivings and regrets,

time flows on its amber way

Caught between two choices

I lie spread-eagled—

in perfect bilateral symmetry

The smell of bread I baked with Mother

on a midsummer afternoon—

put away the memory

The day I left home, Dad muttering

not “So you’re off”

but “So you’re leaving us”

The day I left for Tokyo

Mother looked older by all the years

of separation ahead

Fukui Station, where I left Mother

with a light “See you, then”—

as if going shopping

In the sun

peace seemed so mundane—

what have I thrown away?

Buy myself a pair of slippers

yellow as spring flowers

now that I live here

Next door, hanging out quilts to air—

rattle of the window opening

echoes with spring

Spitting out the day’s fatigue,

taking it on again,

round and round it goes—

evening train on the Yamanote Loop Line

Beautician who’s cut my hair three times

asks me as I take my seat

“Is this your first time here?”

Living alone—

rotten lemon in my right hand

hardly an event

On a night when the world has

forgotten me

the phone next door rings

on and on

Haven’t watered my plants

for three days now—

as if taking some sort of revenge

Long-distance call from Mother—

discuss the prospects

of her herbs and tomatoes

VCR

bought to capture

my five minutes on TV

Your fragrance—