after Fuji Keiko

What opens past is remembering 
What opens future is forgetting
Everything lost to present, I open

That night, 14, 15, 16—I ran from home, 
slurped midnight liver blood and as a bruise
I grew jaundice until I forgot my maker's fist.

Under lone Dogwood tree, I will huddle. Daybreak,
lamppost arcing above will show I harden to bark.
"What happened to Dogwood?" My lover asks.

Yozakura: nothing troubles faith more than the swift 
double take between strangers on nights too green 
to remember these cherry blossoms cannot bless them. 

Yesterday, on street I fell asleep naked, fistful 
of bulbs I wilted chasing spring. Tomorrow, someone 
beside me shifts out of cocoon into my auburn peacoat. 

Monarch Butterfly took off with my fall. I yank 
it off and Monarch disrobes, firefly; I am ashamed. 
It glows desperate yellow, forgets its purple onset. 

Dare not wander hours of dazed horizon violet. Idle as I am, 
I foil myself with melting ice thinking I found warmth.