On August 6 or August 9, 1945 I am walking
with a bouquet of white chrysanthemum,
in Hiroshima or Nagasaki. The day is bright and living.
I honour Amaterasu by stretching out my palm
for a blessing. The outline of my hand against
the sky is her shrine, each finger dancing on a bucket
of clouds. She emerges, laughing, from the cave of a B-29.

because the ashes fall to our feet,
                                                                                   starkly. to applaud a thatched face.

                                                                        o atom, your impression is harsh and flat.
                                                              it reduces scores of your children to searching
                                              in fleshdust. we are a fallow of shadows at your sunfall.

                        because you're like a mirror from the washing of a mask. a fission of
                                  lye. to bathe stone aglow and blanche more than just the bone.

                                o sungoddess, from six hundred meters, you flood early august.
                                        you are the very first time we see a mirror. if you fell colder,
                                                                  it would be less from a coaxing than a grace.

                                                                                                               because the ash of
                                                chrysanthemum on concrete, and all old walls crumble
                          away, for the caustic sobs and bones of crane and you - the sunfall.

                      and although a little boy bites more brightly, its cheeks are round with
               howl, neverending light and a deft melting. and we fall to what remains of
                       our feet, to applaud the blind apologue of the extinguished and solar.

                               because we fold at the hip now to stars and dollars, nevermore a
                                      a sun, because stripes of gauze, the space between unwhite,
                                                  empire-red, we count minutes of living at a fahrenheit.

                                                   ultimately you are a new godhead, split on concrete -
                                an egg or better still, an atom, bless the dust at our feet. and we
             learn to illuminate darkness like a smiling isotope, children of a infirm soil.

                         and because all the gods will dance for want of a clean face. we will
                                                         die for them keloid, colourless, as impressions of
                                                                          the ashes as white as chrysanthemums.