In the night, your strange figure
Quivers along the narrow street
Ibant obscuri sola sub nocte per umbram
perque domos Ditis vacuas.
Ghostly yellow hair.
In the supermarket, a desperate search
“Do you have olives
For my lover?”
My hunt no longer sacred under white lights.
That oddly spoken word—
Lime-green olives
Preserved from a distant world.
Morita Doji spins
Obscured by round sunglasses
In the alleyway music shop
Musky and damp and dark
Cardboard stacked under shelves
Soft dusky Taipei,
The owner asks
If I live here.
