Smoke wafts up from the lounge
among young bamboo.
I am standing on the balcony
backlit from a desk lamp,
cutting the ends of her hair.

The soundtrack of laughter
drowns out the news story
about the Japanese man
who ate a woman in France.
The French didn’t want
to deal with him and
neither did the Japanese.

He lives somewhere here
and has published too many books
for a murderer.

I wish the boy upstairs could see
us from his balcony in this beehive.

He never looks for me.