TOLOMOT
TRIBE

I go on turning
the hot-spring fan of the pudding parfait,
and pour hot water
into the bean-light bulb.

Then the keyboard to my right—
kakaramade, perfume—
and a thick pâté, feh-feh.

A fallen flower drops inside;
I round my back
and add fifty-eight sheets of stationery
beside the pillow.

Inside the pie is a Yankee Kina.

I've been listening,
and now I'm stuck on the shelf.

Because the receipts keep coming,
oh, the strength of the grip—
an anko sensation.

I was touching the tiny fish
and went to sleep.

While fitting seaweed to my elbow,
I breathe into a branch of claw-machine arms.

One hundred scraps of leftover rice,
gripped and gripped again.

A paste—cream lemon—
rubbed into the fragrant kakato.

Look: a party has flown out.

Patchumari. Chumorinu.

Spiders form a procession
on the tip of an elegant nose.

A minishippy river girl
stacked seventy-eight coupons.

Don't call it.
The title matters.

Don't say it's embarrassing.
The shopkeeper of the ditch
dances the universe
into the underground passage.

I want one puddle of water.

I set it down in writing
and spread the water scoop wide.

I take out the mask
of the thirty-crossroads crab.

The Milfieu
and the afutanuun sparrows—eighty-five.

The nail-clipper fish grows hard
and hurries toward a plate.

Patchuchirin Nyakos.

So the wind's sunset
sprays chirashi-sushi spray
and chews on the pace-pace.

The lunchman—zazzaz, a treasure chest.

All right.
Upside down among the sheets,
we find the flower of the door hinge.

The puff-puff tea shop opens.
A celebration.

Translated from the Japanese.