Hiroshima Ghost Couple
Engaged in bed, asleep this still
as if nothing disturbed them.
The cloud that looked like war was just a bird,
the bird that looked like war was just a kite.
Waking, they sit at a table, they spread honey
over slices of peeled green apples
while, at the end of every hour, a small radio
features a symphony of warning;
if something were ever to happen to them—
if something were ever to happen—
the most extreme, fanatical heat
feels at first
so cool. On fire, pink and reddening
like the exploding
of an exclamation point, buds
of cherry blossoms in blister.
Before the kimono she wore with dragons
brands her skin,
and the decay of what he tastes
before the ash that looks like rice
thrown at a wedding—
—look at how they go,
sharing the seat of one bicycle, waist weld to waist,
riding the steep declines of streets, gathering speed
as if to take off.