Sawako Nakayasu is slowly writing an insect-based book, tentatively titled Love, Ants. Her publications include Nothing fictional but the accuracy or arrangement (she, (forthcoming from Quale Press, 2005), So we have been given time Or, (Verse, 2004) and Clutch (Tinfish chapbook, 2002).

...and a slow-moving blog

Three Poems by Sawako Nakayasu


A field of fried umbrellas.

They are arranged so neatly that one wonders if there are small children beneath them, holding hands so as to keep the rows intact and the columns true, in spite of whatever kind of weather may come. Enough fresh oil was used in the frying of these umbrellas that theoretically they should repel any sort of fluid which takes a shot at the field, and in fact this is true, but the unfortunate inherent shape of the umbrella encourages the rain to slip inside the crevices between one fried umbrella and another, getting the toes of the children wet, whether they are there or not.

(first published in english and japanese in a small japanese journal.)


Line trying to crumple its way into texture, hanging itself onto every single potential for a knot, a bend, a kink, turning corners left and right and pouncing on the acuteness of every whiff of misery, nevermind whose, struggling to grow a little chest hair, biceps, to put some ass on it, a stronger mustache, trying to relax and get fuzzy, a stronger voice, at least, oh at the very least if anything, any part of itself could carry slightly, just slightly beyond itself, wondering if it will do to leave a trail of shit, failing to accomplish even that, looking to bulk up and being denied by every perspective, unable to do anything without bringing along the inherent properties of itself which prevent it always from doing anything it wouldn't do.


The weak texture of the air changing as the train pulls away from the station and a hollow becomes visible, a delayed breeze takes hold, the unevenness of the surface of the localized neighborhood arrives to take its place.

A stronger texture of reason, or texture of the reason why I didnšt get on that train, or texture of a frame-by-frame layering of the thought process leading to a decision to not get on the train, add to that arriving too late for it in any case, heavy bags in tow or some such excuse. The layers all pile up against the closing of the train doors, a wreck of logic.