• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 12

Crescent Moon

In the promised swamp
There are bluish shells
Such as the tiptoes

At the kiosk in the airport on a remote island
They are sold as rings, eyeballs and madeleines

While ambushing on the muddy runway
A woman curses ephemeral insanity
To a man who caters In-flight meal
Her passion is immeasurable

A comedienne balances on a ball
Rolling the candies on her tongue

She senses strange flavour
Like mustard
Like Tabasco
Neither blue nor sweet

Warning from control tower in cloudy weather



It may tear the eardrum

Bright red crescent moon