installation work for EASTEAST_TOKYO 23 Who calls my poem a poem? My poem is not a poem. Knowing that my poem is not a poem, only then can we speak of poetry together.

You and I are lying once again atop a train that has just begun to move. The cold night wind brushing against our skin grows gradually stronger and sharper. With a voice I had long since forgotten, you speak to me. “But we have to think about how to live together in different ways.” I stare intently at your face. That familiar, nostalgic face I knew so well. I may be holding your hand, and perhaps we are lying atop two different trains running side by side. You open your mouth again, but your words sink into the roaring wind. A white haze is illuminating the eastern horizon.

This is a story of those things that are lost. Those things that have been lost, are being lost, and will be lost. Those things that were lost long ago, were lost yesterday, are being lost tonight, and will be completely lost by tomorrow morning. Those things you have lost, those things I am losing. And yet, within this story, nothing comes to an end. This is a story of those things that are lost, and not a story about losing things.