That smoke-filled club in Tokyo,
reels of old film on the giant screen
and the inaudible room

with only one heartbeat.
I was in a corner, quiet
and listening. I remembered

the bench outside Baskin Robbins
in Asakusa. Cold inland river breeze
and ice cream in winter. No question

of out of place. We already were.
No choice but to use our mouths
and our hands and our money.

No choice but to shake—
coins, hands of strangers,
ourselves. Because sometimes,

loneliness has symptoms.
And I remember Tsukishima:
The island of the moon.

And the moon a crescent.
And two colored planets dotting
the eyes of its smile.

That was perfect
and therefore, unbelievable
like the earth is, or life.

I remember the city
and its heartbeat, the undercurrent
of its people, and feeling like falling

in love with a girl
whose name you can’t pronounce.
I remember the train, the last one

I walked off of. First of the morning.
Lives were going on everywhere.
Suitcases. There are times

they are the weight of a heart.
And I remember that very club
in my heart.

Sometimes, alone in the room,
it asks for company, and memory,
again and again, says yes.

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