May comes, may come
1 I feel it pass over my collarbone travel down the center of my chest wet and round It is not yet summer But I know those long days of sound, the deep breathing of birds and bugs as they live, live, live so loudly in wet heat I was a child when we met and I knew nothing of people Didn’t understand why they got angry or what they wanted The dirt from the garden was on my knees and on my cheek When I lay in the grass, ants walked all over and bit me sometimes, I didn’t like that The sun, yellow, yellow like a lemon I licked my arm because I wanted to taste the difference—what the sun did to it
2 The first to go may be the slightly browning roses
3 There are small moments that glimmer, I’ve found. Like the breaking open of fruit; it’s juices uncontainable and running. Sticky and wet. A walk to the coffee shop with the remaining yen in your pocket—just enough for a cup that is too expensive—will give you something else that you need. Taste. Smell. Warmth. The illusion of financial freedom. Time freedom. This time of year, there are hundreds of butterflies. And birds. The slugs come out at night for something sweet that you’ve spilled on a wooden bench. Notes from English conversation classes: hill / slope ( saka ) 坂 さか The Louvre spinach brownstone in New York I wanted to tell you about it. Last week I planted some flowers on my balcony. He can’t understand anything. grocery store 違和感 いわかん (iwakan) discomfort frustrating A girl is brushing her hair. If I travel alone, I can decide where to go. It’s very loud. Learning Chinese is easier than she thought. fireflies To walk in the rain I couldn’t understand everything. (This note was from the week before). I couldn’t understand everything the week before either. But I find flickers of comfort in buying a new set of masks. They are pink and fresh and breathe easy in this new heat. Rearranging my room. Dusting off the window sill so it makes me sneeze a little less. I place here the broken pieces of the shell I found in my pocket, the acorn, and the pinecone. A pressed flower from last summer that fell from a book. Its purple color left marks on the pages. I sit on the balcony and listen to the planes go by overhead—the flight routes to the airport were rerouted about two years ago; residents here watch all those who come and go. To Haneda from Haneda; we are told there are very few people in the seats. Though that might change soon, come summer.
There is a new nest being built outside my window by a diligent and very lyrical sparrow. If there is time tomorrow I may look for a new pillowcase somewhere in Shinjuku. Maybe go to the beach if the weather is fine. Like Mrs.Ramsay or maybe like James in To The Lighthouse, I hope the weather will be fine.
4 I met the ocean, I said to a friend he asked how it felt to dance at dawn in the waves After telling him, I asked him what he thought it looked like His camera searched for me, he said I had sand in my ears then We found a coin shower next to a seven eleven in the middle of nowhere I used three coins for the hot water, had to ask it to come to wash away the cold The meeting And the cold The shaking In the car we sat silently, driving past green rice fields wet and lush I was dry and warm by then, holding a bottle of hot tea I haven’t felt such wild calm in a while
beautiful streams of consciousness