Adjust the color of the sky,
my phone offers, trapped in the kindergarten knowledge
that cherry-blossom and atmosphere are distinct.
The sky-color is as cold as a sheet of paper
that only says true things:
my country does not love me; I don’t know
if you will pass the gate tomorrow after
they take your photograph;
I am still alive.

[Editor’s Note: The publication of this poem was made possible by a donation from Gwynne Garfinkle during our annual Kickstarter.]