If today is not October Seventh,
she is not standing over the bridge.
White scattering stars cover street lamps.
Spots are orange in my foot prints.
I think of her more than she thinks of me.
Donâ€™t let the lamps go out.
I am too scared to sleep and my feet are cold.
Ghostly clouds surround my head and whisper Bachâ€™s song.
I still do not know why I couldnâ€™t. I couldnâ€™t say,
Her body weighs almost nothing in the rippling river
Naoko Fujimoto is a native of Japan. She is finding a home for her first poetry manuscript, â€œRadio Tower.â€ Her recent publications are in Prairie Schooner, Construction Literary Magazine, and NANO Fiction.