Notes

Kodama-sensei tells me his mother has died.

I went looking for a hook to fish his fallen hat from the subway tracks.

I went to temple, he says. I am Buddhist, not Shinto.

There’s sadness behind every third sterility mask.

The one pushing buttons in the corner has a kind enough face.

I gave you my pen, and then I didn’t write for a week.

Tell me your resolutions resolutely. Be convincing, now, try.

Yuri prowls; I don’t want to be seen by her, nor by anyone.

Akemashite omedetto gozaimasu. Bow.

On-and-off neckties.

The bag of oranges in my fingerless hands.

(you say you want to write, but for whom?)

All this motion, yet I feel like a field of golf balls holding its gut in under the sun.

Bow.

Frozen gymnasium floor. No slippers left, the cold creeps easily through my thickest socks.