K.S.M.E.

Soba is the ideal food to put life back

into perspective: its splintered taste, its

aged textural plainness reconnects one to

the simpler, pure occurrences of daily labor.

One does not eat soba; one –thinks- soba.

Spread in its reed basket, it livens the fun of

angling feelings, it lays bare a diorama

of my own thought patterns, which seem to

grow more and more confusing, tenderly

cute yet spiraling by the minute.

It seems, somewhat, silly to cling on a

sensation as frivolous as taste, which lasts

zero and is, in fact, zero in itself. But you are

like that; the delicate, lovingly shallow is

your dominion. This, of you, I like the most.

If, as you say, you do not wish to become

a conundrum of unresolved issues just like me,

How will you interpret my sign of commitment?

Thick hair arranged upon our table,

Spelling K.S.M.E.