Satoshi Iwai
Nervous Sky
He supposes that he has trod on a white kitten, but it is someone's winter cap which is crushed on the pavement. He is on the way to his ex-girlfriend's apartment. The street is filled with someone else's winter. All the forgotten birds are on the way for someone else’s south.
The stone cupids keep their pupilless eyes open at the center of a dried-up fountain. They look at him, but look at nothing. For the cold statues, memories have been as boring as eternity. The cell phone starts ringing in his pocket. Hello, this is daytime moon.
Winter branches are the quivering nerves of the sky. Fallen leaves are the future that gives up the idea of going south. Hundreds of photos have been sent from the cell phone to the daytime moon, but the last one is left as a mirror in his hand. He is on the way to his ex-girlfriend's apartment.
Satoshi Iwai was born and lives in Kanagawa, Japan. He writes poems in English and in Japanese. His English work has appeared in Heavy Feather Review, FLAPPERHOUSE, Small Po[r]tions, Your Impossible Voice, Poetry Is Dead, and elsewhere.