On Mount Otowa

I finally made it to Kyoto

after all these years.

In another world

it’d no longer be here,

and I’d have to envy Henry

for his trips in the nineteen-twenties.

Maybe he’d have a picture

of him and his wife

I could stab with a knife.

A picture could never

rouse this feeling

so close to pain

people call nostalgia.

The view opened up

on Mount Otowa,

and there she was

in the blizzard of sakura –

floating in a prayer.

It was deafening

until it wasn’t, and then

we were all alone.