Parsley leaf green's
Swelling form
We're happy to have wives
A man's shouting
That does not mean he is in a suit
Still looking for acidity
And flying past the joints of tall blue bamboo trunks
A black swallowtail, in whose darkness gold powder
A vegetable human
Looks drowned
What's a wife?
She is eating on a shelf
The center of marmalade

A meal begins
A bottle into a bottle being stuffed
In addition evening
On the breath
Visible from the flame tongue
On the descending slope the bell the tongue is medievally
Plump
And goes down along a cross
Well then from what earth
Is cinnamon brought?
Toward the beloved lips
Headed by two children
Who wet even Victoria's frog with rain
It comes
A spring storm!
Is this real lyrical?
The pillar inside mother
The sextuple that can't describe its hair
Assimilated with forests
Gathering birds
Whose upturned, black, fragmented
Sufferings in heels
After all, a wife is a floral decoration of baroque art
Can spurt out?
Toward the front of the building
Can you see the vine leaves reviving again?
If eternal preservation is possible
Of religious stained glass
Push it open dazzlingly
In the scattering volume
Seeds of barley
The husband who must accept in advance
Prints
A silk-ripping vermilion-coated small painting
There beyond the cedar tree
Is a river in which flow flowing horses and soldiers
Whose world is silent
A housemaid comes home alone