on the windowpanes
on the porcupine’s skin
on the curtains
on braids
on the plates in restaurants
and the hats, buttons, rings
I wrote this poem.

In the night, when the newspaper’s proofreader died
he died without reading the proof.

I wrote it in coal
on snow
and on new shoes
for the ink has become like mud
and the paper, how miserable the paper is!

—Muin Beseisu, “Fingernail Poem”
Photography Credit Hidehiko Sakashita

1:22 pm  •  13 February 2013  •  265 notes