after THE PARK by Kohei Yoshiyuki

Our eyes strobed with flashing red

we see branches lit like tunnels

and thus we too are watching

each touching the others, as in pictures

the man the men each holding

for a moment and each not receding

unlike the moment, they too are receding

not knowing and not ashamed by red

lights growing in camera, not holding

the light, letting it strobe the grass and tunnel

the flash bulb recording serial pictures

holding back dark in watching

but not this darkness, under fences watching

nor any in plastic sheaths receding,

caught blank in leaving picture

houses so white grained, the light that red

still embers burning outside the tunnels

inside the park, inside the man still holding

the man beside the tree still holding

but not naming, not by anything but men watching

and mouths; the mouth on him eclipsing tunnels

and all the glow dimming on him receding

this eye memory of names once read

still fading, now framing pictures

of those bananas pink, white like pictures

growing leaves, this bark for a moment holding

light and some bodies lit invisible red

by cold bulbs breaking; still watching

the men the women the branches receding

the men the two lights shining back in two tunnels

with the black and light still dark, these tunnels

not ashamed; even of themselves, we picture

no memory in these instants, grappled and receding,

now withdrawn and no more holding

the flash the experience or light of watching;

only here as light and as light knowing this red

and this receding, pulling smoked from those tunnels

the green grass red, in light of these pictures

the grains fast, holding hands in this watching