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 reflections and ghosts.