as in love as in travel

map making appears to be the most peculiar science today

as morning adjusts the fittings of great importance to frame

shapes completely new. wishing I didn't have a clue about that, to leave,

it is down and directly past the neighbor's pruned palm,

across the road to meet the waterway, then, at that point, ahead until

the train station packs into view — I search the limitlessness

encased here, for any time that the future could save.

between the words lost and losing whole universes change

hands. where the last option illuminates nullification the other is

misleading with possibilities — becoming something

indeed, even wanted. abruptly one is aware of the multitude of varieties

gotten back to locate by just looking, an absence of commonality

striking the normal into interest, similarly as in the folktales

in which demise plays analyst, the vagabond is the one

who avoids the cutting edge. it is so magnificent to not be found

yet, to find, as I find in tokyo — whose roads

look like maze, punctured with rhododendron in spring

furthermore, roaring gingko in pre-winter — and recollect once more

at the point when you chuckle and I don't inquire as to why. furthermore, I don't need

to know either, to whom this room had a place with before us,

or on the other hand where that smell of natural product is coming from, or why a mist

ascends to challenge the information on places once personally

kept. I'm thankful that inside you just the obscure lives,

that even as what passes between us is fragile and restricted

also, human, we actually dream of things looking like the everlasting.