Killing time, we find a stretch of sand
and wait for the sun to fade
in the bay’s rough curve.
So I tell you how I’ve learned
death is Daliesque—an elephant on stilts,
a camellia grown in the ocean.
How every set of eyes that met mine
something now gone.
Oshima sits quietly, just south of Yokohama.
Their disaster is two decades old now,
a story between mouthfuls.
So carefully you reply,
watching the water
turn solid in the dark.