My Walk, My City

Even at dawn dreams & daylight marry
in a Murakami world. Our spirit-words walk
Kyoto silently. Yes, & at dusk we tread lightly.
Hearing footsteps might make us disappear.
The past lives inside us here on Shinmonzendori. A
cuckoo’s voice calls from the clockshop. No hawkers
cry out, only the shuffle of shoppers shoe—& mine.
I am comfort, I sway under my silks,
long to sing chansons, speak French with the French.
For twenty years I have poured tea, danced, imitated pleasure.
Kyoto, my prison.

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