Ken Ishikawa
Tonight, I will think
of how much work it is
to even dream in her bunk bed.
Tomorrow morning, I will eat
the breakfast she foregoes
I see him at tangent points: in a hotel
reading the Shimbun with his slippers
on, his feet up the table, or on the plane
above my head, drinking scotch, I know
the soul is just another we could not touch.
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