It was summer in Hokkaido.
           The forest stole the wind
           and I swallowed my footsteps.
           Nobody came to the springs.
           Butt naked I sat halfway
           through my life measuring
           this, that.
In Hokkaido it was summer.
           Everything was halved or merged.
           Half-cut fingers, half-foxgloves,
           a marrowbone-cum-cabbage white.
           The daylight moon, split.
           I talked to nobody about
           this, that.
Hokkaido in summer it was.
           Ants were carrying a caterpillar
           home. No bird arguing.
           Nobody said missiles crossing
           so I stayed. The night trees
           stole the seas, canceling
           this, that.