Melted gold butters the water’s fingers,
They cannot hold much, eyes only.
Fish fidget under the stairs, I don’t belong here;
You belong nowhere else than where I stand.
Kobe was marbled to market’s call.
I was falling raw upon local palate;
The commoner's guide to greeting with bows.
Not so easily forgotten are the palaces
That I so despair, so regret,
Chairy blossom’s are not my skyline
They are the only skyline that was not grey to you.
These subway halls, corridors and serrated angles,
Milk-tea angels blossom from the deserts,
Shoe-polish tea drips like sand from tables.
Now we travel floating, living shadows of color
That faint and fade by the prowess of a sun.
This is the only life I want to live, such clothing,
Such pavement, crosswalks of silver seconds,
Impatience was my virtue.
When I wake up, businessmen walk rainy,
Architects bit by a pencil’s lead;
Erasers dig deep below the subways,
Skylines of unyielding heights, rain drips
Past the window high enough, eating egg-cake,
Fish, vertigo; we all roll off the plastic sill.
High enough to see the rain form,
This was not my storm, not my lighting;
It’s the only thunder you ever needed.