Moriyama at Hamiltons.

The selfies, the doggo or Tokyo night shadows—
grain thick and heavy as layered lead in mines,
as shrines, or a crackling television screen;

walls, grey-ultramarine and still, on sheened stone.

The man/the child, a world distant monochrome;
sharpened from blurred, bland words, backlit
as LED’s, strangers’ faces, blank in silver passing:

wide eyes, bare flesh and colourless luscious lips—
crowds drift on, all just mere ghosts and reflections.