“…I cannot tell
if I hunger, or am hungered for.” – seon joon
How can I take this light in both
my hands this morning, this skein
of cool air that doesn’t sting;
how can I fill this mouth
that stumbled, parched,
from seeming oasis
to oasis through the years?
The canopy beads with heathered
sound: small, tufted bodies
call to each other through the trees.
And I imagine they are sure the notes
will fall on their intended ear,
certain the vines that screen
the other from view will lift
with the next wind. And so I face
the window where the light looks
kind: is there to be an accounting?
There are so many more questions
I have not found answers for—
But what could it do with me now,
that it hasn’t done before?