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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?
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