Japan was weird.
Wasn’t it? Our apato heated by kerosene;
flared Imperial rooflines, toy-sized election vans
squawking anthems
and slogans from mounted bullhorns
as they inched between the housing units.
I’d walk an hour each way to the library.
Its hazy interior had a section for smoking,
so I promptly spun around
and strode to the corner to get some—
when will I ever do this again?—
then flattened yesterday’s Tribune
on the desk, and puffed curlicues
of Lucky Strike smoke into the air.
If time could be killed, I directed a massacre
until five forty-five and the peace you brought to evening.
Later, just before eleven, at a loose end, I whistled
through the inky side streets for a cold, machine-vended
Asahi or Kirin (that satisfied ke-tunk
as the can rolled into the catch-tray).
Different plans and the little money we had
left much unsaid between us. We were paralysed
by silence on the unknown future, forgetting
that being together meant everything.
I’d crossed a continent, an ocean, half of Japan
just to bob on the grey pivot of your eye
but must have seemed adrift instead.
You thought it was you I didn’t need,
but that was only the fog of being young.
One day in March, I walked along the river—
spiky, beige grass, beige water, and a sad, sunken dock
like the spine of an unearthed thunder-lizard.
Someone’s golden retriever bounded up the slope
toward me, frivolous with joy. I braced for the lunge
of wet paws, staggered by its love without condition.