You said this summer,
hold me tight,
when hanging lights―
go out.
I will heal your moon,
your cryptobiosis
of seeds―
at dawn, when you wake up
before the stars leave.
It would not be a day of mourning.
The quinces, japonica
irises were deeply disturbed.
Under the tongue
lies the religion of masses.
The menus are same, only
the taste was different.