murakami

frames resting on the bridge of my nose
absorbed in something beyond myself
streaming from his pen to my eyes
he speaks across continents, across minds
treacle hanging in wisps along my temples
another quest for self-revisiting, i imagine
and the weather merits these clothes
something i hardly resent, but once wished
could be possessed by him, in ignorance.
and the singing in my ear, the print before my eyes
is acknowledging
of my unsurety and my loneliness, once more.