He’s a tall live wire,
in a small blue pool
of my sweet subtle charities.
Picking sacred cherries
near the goals we
once made together.

How does Mount Fuji
keep her fire beneath?
Green satan kimono
lace, and overlined lips.
He’s got soft knuckles
but red palms.

If you plant a shot
you may shoot
my bowing deer.
Osaka’s shrines
sing of the blue eyed
souls they keep hidden too.

Finders of lost artifacts
lost in battles of the heart.
I haven’t cared in
a retrograde.
But I wish I could blow too,
like Fuji at a whistle.