Adrift, this time, in Tokyo, a place more comprehensively
Peculiar than the ones upon which I've washed up before.
I'm hemmed in. Everything is small, the rooms, the bars, the toilets,
Space to stand among the throngs of women in cream-colored
Coats and men in dark-toned business suits packed tightly onto
Every train. It's cherry blossom season now, and untold thousands
Queue, all life here's queuing, with their phones and fancy cameras, bent
On taking shots of trees which look exactly as they have at this time
Every year. The Ginza, gaudy shopping hell, is packed, of course,
But not by those who cram into commuter trains. It's filled with
Gawking foreign tourists and the local hipster kids. Somebody
Pointed out to me from high up in a downtown building where
The base of Fuji was. The rest was covered up by clouds, and so
It goes. A shrine is not a place of peace. It's one which peddles
Souvenirs. This city's strange, so frantic and entirely too packed
To love, but I can't say that it's repellent. Set off by an ocean
And a language from what vexes me, I must admit I'm feeling
Buoyant, even in another queue.