WebPoems

Fan of stream mud, pointing out to sea,

A reflection of the mountain,

This shallow inlet drains, sucking

Water from three villages.

So like California, these ridges, green for now

With grass, but few shrubs; trees

Only in valleys, and just behind ridges,

Forming a barrier between us and it,

An irregular body, emphasizing depth,

Leading eyes up slope, down river,

Back to the one boat, headed into the cut.

No one's out, even the boatman hides,

Perhaps it's before dawn, when only

Hokusai stayed up to see

The mountain rise up, jagged, gold,

An old man's stubbly chin, a rough saw,

Genitals warming to morning love,

The mons Veneris of Japan, Mount Fuji.