City Sleep

We make the move to Tokyo. Our plastic
umbrellas shine like windows of black
angled towers, gazebos draped in sakura.
I don't love much more than a skyscraper.
Every night, I call old friends from the future,
you tell me a bedtime story of birds that fall
right to sleep when the sharp of the needle skims
its way into their docile brains, we cherish our lives
in the city. Trains, cars, bedrooms, all stop and go,
all same-sided beads that curl our white necks.