A story I told myself

A little long time ago there was a shoe-thief in Matsue. It was a nameless behemoth and loved the oceanic breeze and the oceanic cusps because it too was so empty. Often it avoided street lamps and said: how can the empt generate people, cars, boats, plumpness? Space is space and wherever it is filled? A faith that transcends timeliness and spaceliness? The wooden house and its visitors sought little excepts red bean pastes, and crab miso paste (which does not exist) and above nothing, variety, but theirs was a hard lot, their shoes, which were stolen at 5:07 PM on a Thursday, were ever stolen, constantly being stolen and never being returned. It was not "Who would steal shoes?" Often we ask wrong-oriented questions. The shoe-thief was named Yoshe.

They were great friends with the heart-thief and potato-thief, meeting them atop candles, flag poles, and inside garbage cans. But the incandescent household whose shoes were grafted onto Yoshe's hands, they knew not the shoe-thief.

A long-winded breeze,
scissoring the tween
of grassy succulents.
Once you have gone;
but, yet. Yet but.
Twice you have come.

Loquacious, aqueous zephyr.
How do I smell you how I feel:
hold me all ye who would never.
And you who do ever,
hold me most often.