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.

Don’t let the lamps go out.
I am too scared to sleep and my feet are cold.

Ghostly clouds surround my head and whisper Bach’s song.
I still do not know why I couldn’t. I couldn’t say,

“Touch me”—

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, “Radio Tower.” Her recent publications are in Prairie Schooner, Construction Literary Magazine, and NANO Fiction.