After The Chemo

You said this summer, 
hold me tight, 
when hanging lights― 
go out. 

I will heal your moon, 
your cryptobiosis 
of seeds― 

at dawn, when you wake up 
before the stars leave. 

It would not be a day of mourning. 

The quinces, japonica 
irises were deeply disturbed. 
Under the tongue 
lies the religion of masses. 

The menus are same, only 
the taste was different.