Simple Story
       

When I was twelve my body was made of noise.
The house had its steam, its cabling, cast
in television light and pitched in rhythms
of simple wants, butane flick
or the faucet seizing, the delicate crinkle
of plastic. It was small, and I was small, and
the hills ran away from underneath us
until they reached the woods. One could package
and ship, they say, arrive somewhere
over and over. In the city the waters
are lapping at my feet. I am educated
in animals and music. I learned winter
and then cinema, how to ride in a car
seven different ways. It is a mistake to think
that one persists, that one isn't constantly being
replaced. I sign the letter with both hands. I post
up, and the room is vaulted enormously over me.

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Copyright © 2017 Ryo Yamaguchi All rights reserved
from Hayden's Ferry Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission