That finishes with the island and returns
to mainland Japan and the following winter.
This poem is called, "The Bed in the Sky."
Motorcycle strums the empty streets,
heading home at 1:00 AM.
Ice slicks shine in the moon, I weave a safe path through.
Naked shivering light flows down,
fills the basin over Kyoto.
And the plane, a ghost glacier dream.
From here, 100 miles are clear, the cemetery behind.
Namu, Amida, Butsu chiseled 10,000 times.
Tires crackled the mud puddles, the northern hills
gleamed white.
I ought to stay outside alone and watch the moon all night.
But the bed is full, and spread, and warm.
I hug you and sink in the dark.
My stomach against your big belly feels our baby turn.