Japanese under the Sun

It is red, this sun, and any other word
would be glaringly ostentatious, when
this poem ought reflect the Zen-like quality
of a pretty plate of dead sliced fish
on palm rolled balls of rice.

In which case - the waiter, waits,
the chopsticks lift lips of fish,
the bamboo knocks to point out stillness,
the bubbles lean on ice-cubes in the glass,

while the sun
.................... bleeds
................................ecstatic
..........................................colours to the sky