inaccessible

She dresses like an art student

or a

revolutionary.

1930's newsboy cap,

woolen over coat,

khaki's,

converse.

Her hair

long,

untamed,

dyed from black

to chestnut

landing somewhere

in between.

Ageless eyes

peer out from

the space

between

bill of the cap

and her knees,

which have been

drawn up to

her chest,

absorbing the

poetry of

passing images.

Hands tell

a story,

novel in length.

A woman lost

in middle age

and madness

occupied by

the moment when

what she sees,

thinks,

dreams,

all cross together.

When the lines become

blurred

and the trinity

experiences

unity,

she rises from the bench

shuffles

trying to decipher

which of the three

is happening

by talking through

their plots.

Rapid fire mutterings

in broken

punctuated

Japanese.

She sits back down

remembers

a black skirt

amphetamines and forays

into the underground.

The night

she met

Kan Mikami

just after her

return from

her third year at

Berkeley.