Ginza

In a bowl of Miso soup there is only Me and Not-Me.
That which is not molds the mushroomed cloud:
myself. I raise the constellation to my lips and tiny tofu logs
emanate like empathetic icebergs. My reflection tastes muddy,
as should be expected, and reminds me of my kelp forest youth.
Chewed by urchins. Suspended in one blue, other’d
by another. Chewing on seaweed only serves to hunger,
and suddenly I realize: I have existed solely on dead things.
Jazz plays airy overhead, little to do with the day or décor.