iA


The Nolans in Japan

They paused on the brink of a blinding Tokyo morning:
I could have been dreaming,

thick with sake and jetlag, McTeriyaki,
neon blinking

Love Hotel . . . Asahi Super Dry

but there they were, their wild red hair streaming,
Rossetti beauties

in tiny Valentino heels, towering
over flunkies

with Yamamoto suits and walkie-talkies.
Then, as suddenly

as they had alighted, they were disappearing
into the choking

traffic mist. I have to tell you everything,
however fleeting:

this city’s like a wind-up toy — flashing,
bright — unlike the city

where I live with you, your face beside me
as I am waking.

How could words express this world, reeling
out of reach —

a place you don’t exist where I have seen
The Nolans, leaving

in their tinted-window limousine,
faces fracturing,

Japanese teens giggling through their hankies
in disbelief?