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.
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