ooh boy. another one filched from the deepest freudian recesses of a history lesson.

Winter 1908

at yokohama:

the crowd murmurs
in broken sputters
and scuff their boots
in dirtied snow
(in anticipation)

the monks shake their heads
as they shuffle by
(they were the true gentlemen)


they are here
and so white
are they in mourning?

yes, yes,
they mourn
for general perry's mistake
for teddy's nobel
for the death of nobility

they mourn
for korea and manchuria
and for the open door
that was closed after all

but not everything is

red eyes stare back
(red pupils in a
white schoolroom)
and red stripes
lining the horizon

not everything is
the memories of blood
are just as sanguine
the blue is
almost renegade
an augury of

hard to imagine
in thirty years
none of the colors
will matter

(the geishas
the admirals
the meticulous planning
will all be forgotten)
and even the white
will be obliterated.

told you. XP