September 1st, 1923
To show you the world, I’ll take you by the hand on a hot, clear day in Tokyo, towards the middle of the morning, when people hurry home for lunch.
To answer if there is anything that wouldn’t come undone, I’ll point to the ground, which begins to tremble and shake, to the cracks tearing it apart.
To dispel your disbelief, I’ll take you through the people running for safety, some already buried as houses fall down, gas pipes breaking, fire spreading through the town.
The past is a disheveled lake after a summer storm. Clear on the surface but in its depths, murky and dark.
In order not to scare you I’ll call the frigid, ghostly lake-water, the passage of time.
Read more poetry in our current issue