I close my eyes, I hear the city.
I keep them closed, superimpose Nagoya in snow.
I take this face and sketch in place a brand new scene.
And cars collide and turn to cranes, they fly to find the silver line.
The sound of trains.
On the bus, a girl, a tease at ease, a girl a scene unseen.
I dash inside and drop my keys. The sound more harsh than falling leaves.
They leave a mark on a fallen tree. A scratch on my table where a branch may be.
The wind returns and the table greets the gust, a stranger to the wood it meets.
The air offends the woods as we have or as we would.
When we write these words on fallen trees that could be from the same wood.
I open my eyes, I see the street. I keep them wide, I greet.