how to

there's instructions for every breathing detail

in a life of one's own;

a place to place the placings in your head,

a bathmat,

how to fold fitted sheets.

something inescapable in a lifetime of mirrors,

uneventful wandering,

around days and days and days

seeing how old houses are torn down

for new apartment blocks to be built up.

i will miss my neighborhood as i grow old,

it will escape me faster than i will ever be able to retain it in my memory.

the winds will change, 

the voices coming from the bathroom window,

the way the sun sets.

all of it will also die with me,

as i go, no remains of a life well lived.

it bears without saying

that my best memories will always lie together

with the sunsets, sandstorms, moonless nights.

none of which have ever been 

instructed to be mine.

we have grown to appreciate all that's calm,

and whatever's withered and falling.

the ground that breathes

 as i walk through boulevards 
and the sun begins to mount its way
back to Japan,
there's a slower consideration
in the boiling pavement
that lies beneath all my wishes.
the further away i get
from the subway station
the more the ground seems to breathe.
homes get bigger and plentiful;
no signs of the newest addition
of gray concrete, straight lines and estranged facades:
instead we get artistry,
a roof filled with ancestor's best intentions
mirrored lines and cracked bricks
to bring out the lemon trees
and perfume, peeking in from behind the fences
a sense that there's still some soul left
to this part of town
that for so long i felt like it could never belong to me.

as i stand on top of the bridge
i see how the sun fights back the windshields
the speed of sound coming in waves
and how much space
is still left
to dream.

i want to remember these streets by heart;
recite every name like a mouthful
so it'll never lose the quality of being misunderstood;
auxiliary to the greater good,
the final steps behind the high way:
the soft tissue behind the grayed out green 
areas sold to the highest bidder.