My Hiroshima

I wake to strange words

from the tongue of my brain,

which apparently hadn’t slept

a wink last night.

Hiroshima, Hiroshima, it

clicks, over and over.

I’d left the TV on,

the one inside my head.

Outside, that relentless

stream of unconsciousness,

the morning traffic.

Have I woken?

Strange terror of a world

half awake to horror memories.

See, it doesn’t flinch

as the sun,

rays snagged in the tram door,

swings a truculent fist

in the faces of

sunken eyed commuters.

Sleep walkers,

obedient passengers,

ferried into the forge

of hatchling nightmares.

The future also dozes with them.

In fitful dreams,

time’s teethed wheel clicks,

a mechanical god drops in place,

and millions fall

from a churning city.

Have I woken?

In Heiwa park

the crows seem happier.

They sing as they

skirt around this precipice,

eyes wide open,

glinting.

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