I spent one winter transcribing hibakusha testimonies
into a black notebook

It was on me   a pocket  

I drew out of it  
long   soundless nights

with a pale sun
warming my hands

But the pages stayed dark  

Transcribed, I said  
I copied   was copying

as a ghost copies embodiment
by being transparent

is its offering


I waited every night
for the words of survivors.

The ground stretched   flowers
that were not going to appear for 75 years
appeared.  days later

Who saw them
to say so?  

the buttery blue eye
of the tiniest bones of Hiroshima