Chika Sagawa

Night eats color, Flower bouquets lose their fake ornaments. Day falls into the leaves like sparkling fish And struggles, like the lowly mud, The shapeless dreams and trees Nurtured outside this shriveled, deridable despair. And the space that was chopped down Tickles the weeds there by its feet. Fingers stained with tar from cigarettes Caress the writhing darkness. And then the people move forward.