From the wharf, a dumped woman, giving a ride. Or, from the wharf, a dumped woman, making her going by ship.
The mist has cleared, the farther shore of the lake, two of the ghost I see.
A shooting star he found, millet jelly on his left hand, melting down.
To make an address to replay, in the psychiatric hospital, a pupil to b born and bred.
Drinking for our final parting, the geisha girl's nose, running green snot.