once, at a bar in a tokyo high rise
eliot and hiro look over at vic.
“it’s such a strange language.”
a cheap and broken bic,
floating in drunk sewage.
it’s from Kabuki:
flipscans in the corporate docket
of a burned branded jet ski.
she fished a scrap out of her back pocket.
But she was lonely.
one didn’t have to wear a face mask,
to fail suddenly,
but she had decided to never ask.