I was just going to write about Sendai.
The river, the plants. That rackety flat
riddled with cold, cold that punched the gut
so blood had no place to hunker from the day.
Then, tatami strands bruised mould in the heat,
when for ages before, glass had rattled like sheet
ice in its groove, and I winced on the scale
of a broken-winged bird flung upward in a gale.
No stopping the wind, or what it would scatter,
thinking back: not the mushroom, but the spore,
not the casing of fear, but the core;
like all I always meant to repair – the light,
the door – those little oversights of foresight
that at the time never seemed to matter.