We moved, because we must
always move, to a place where
we wouldn’t move, somewhere
where the houses were
all the same, where people owned
cars the same as ours, even
down to the Barcelona Red.
We moved to where everything
normal was on the skin
and what was within
was contained, held,
by the four walls open
to the street, no fences,
but trees waving off the sky,
waving the same
like fans in the audience
the lucky, settled in the dark.

Daryl Muranaka lives in Boston with his family. In his spare time, he enjoys aikido and taijiquan and exploring his children’s dual heritages. His first book, Hanami, was released by Aldrich Press in April 2015.

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.