Iwatake, sing to my of ukiyo-e and
harvests. Your skirts are as beautiful and
foul as a geisha. I twirl myself to your
rock ear and dream of your delicacies, as
I scent the smell of Kiwa on you. Kumano
embraces you now for reparations. Will
you recover from the slices of the
Kishu-Tokugawa? You peel yourself from
cave to basket, pleasing, pleasing. I
wish to taste you, Iwatake, you and your
wooden prints, full of the color you
never knew. Hiroshige abandoned you
for the supple curves like mushrooms, and you
wilted –out of season. Rest now, and I
will whisper tales to you of lichen,
mountains, and the west.
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