Slowly, slowly
the little snail
climbs Mount Fuji -
sends a message to his wife:
pretty good day today!
Snails have their systems.
Well, dear, I made – oh - 2.5?
He’d be talking about metres:
Fuji has 3776 of those things
going up into the snowline
getting gradually colder, so
pure, apart from the sweltering
skin-itching, sleep-depriving
bugfucked Japanese summers
the people endure below.
Even snails in their shell
have been known to complain
among the raucous cicadas
in their dusty pines
down on the plain.
Don’t take a chill my honey
says Mrs. Snail. I want you
back here safe and sound.
It’s all right my darling.
I know my way along the ground.
I do not share the human hell
of doing things for money.
I do what I must do
for the snails of Japan, for the Emperor,
but most of all for you!
