November 14

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poetry

Nightime and raining
in Akihabara

screens shout
at nobody

in particular
and songs play on

in endless short
loops, Yodobashi,

yodobashi, even here
up seven floors

in a narrow corridor
stacked with bins

of diodes, capacitors,
secret parts

foreign as the writing
on the wall–

signs here have no meaning
for us–

we enter if the door is open,
and stare,

entranced, as small things
start to move,

or dance, or wait for us
to reach out

and divine their purpose–
although technically useless

this plastic dome
with a slit cut out

to form a toothless mouth
has us in crying, laughing

at its wretched singing,
its function must be joy–

the sentiment is clear
if not the packaging.

Outside loud neon
melts into pools of liquid

color, blurred by our tears
and the unceasing rain,

suggestive in a way
of Christmas lights, the tree

the way a sleepy child
sees it, awake if barely,

still tethered to conciousness
by pure delight

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