by Keiko Shibata, Contributing Editor

fallen flower…

reflection of light spun from moth,

draping bare shoulders, needful breasts

veiling an entrance to a sacred cave

intimacy waiting for fulfillment

as a message flickered in the shadows

a sigh emitted from the plastic phone

tender, smooth jazz streamed the air

sonorous thunder from billowy clouds

rain streaks on the windowpane, pillows pure

 lightning brightens a bamboo canvas

an elevator crowded with cheery eyes,

outside, traffic noise in the theater district

inside, the felicity of an evening dew

a knock on the door, gentle as if to whisper

the peephole revealed a distinguished actor

a face with a puppy’s salacious tongue

he entered as if opening night

extended to him a character mask

a stagecraft ceremonial ritual offered

the eros of indulgence, an actor’s dream –

the yellow silk of desire.