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The characters for Mt. Fuji can be read as
“not death.” In every one of Hiroshige's
One Hundred Views, there it is.
Tiny figures in the foreground, leaning
into the wind.





At least a third but preferably half of a rock should be buried.









A garden of dove-coloured pebbles
interrupted by low, vivid blooms. Corrugated plastic presses
a grey sky down. Like that dream of the universe reduced to scribbles
in an empty auditorium, the flowers, portulaca, recur
within hearing of a stream. Kiyomizu: clear water.






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