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Oh my gosh, the Sumida River's as big
As Tokyo Bay--and heavy. The small boats strain
Anchor chains against the current ...
And this enormous bridge, too, all wood
And sweat, arching over the deep waters,
An industrial triumph, a carpenter's high tech,
Advertising nationhood.
Not so magnificent for these passengers,
Tossed up and down near shore, rough stiff waves
Knocking boat and baggage back and
forth,
As the oarsman just gets free of the dock--
How many of their great grandchildren
Are stuck in Tokyo traffic today,
Or studiously sleeping as the subway nears Shinjuku station?
Hokusai's so delicate with horizons,
The uneven surfaces indicate house, tree,
Ridge, and hubbub, without disrupting
The line of shore stuff, the far side,
This intriguing other, just out of reach.
Did anyone notice this dark line storm
Black as a monsoon, bearing down
On the pale beige sky, menacing
Anyone caught on the water? These
sheer broad bands
Darkly frame and extend the river, as if
The weather itself carried Japan along,
Without a sign of sun, just atmosphere,
Scratched by this fishing pole, and poked
By the modest triangle of Mount Fuji.
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