you say "rabbit rabbit"— it's the first day of the month I was born in, and I kiss you as if you are the only one for me cherry blossoms— memory of an old temple; a tree on a crutch me on my cane tiny newborn grand-daughter— my daughter and I both sob remembering my mean mother who still would have been the one to send a vase of roses raked gravel— but when I think of my Japan I see mice scurrying by flooded rice fields and sniff the stink of the sea terrible news from every direction— I dip another chip in salsa. I can't see the future and for this moment don't care, as you are smiling at m