My body was made
entirely of holes.
Each a nameless story.
maybe if I kept talking
we would forget
to sleep. Or sail
from one island
of slumber to the next,
a sky of only our breathing.
When else have I prayed
to some tired deity–
some treacherous djinn–
and wished for the entire Earth
and its motors to slow?
were carved on stone:
Happiness is a fleeting thing.
Joy is only the first
and loudest echo
in the valley of contentment.
But the legend speaks
of a woman who told stories
for one thousand nights.
In those two and something years
who knows if they learned
to talk only with eyes?
If they saw in one another
eternities of stories
abridged into a smaller
eternity of stories?
If they simply let
the warm night
dot the constellations
of what never happened?
My body was made
Last month, Aly and I took a walk in Busan. It was my first winter in years. We walked from Dongbaekseom Island, along the Haeundae coastline, then up Dalmaji Hill. My tropical self was freezing, so, on the way back home, we took a bunch of photographs of the sunset and then sat by the long glass window of some coffee shop to watch the sky make way for the night time. Aly bought me a hot chocolate, and she got a drink for herself that the barista got wrong. I think it bothered her, but it wasn’t enough to get her out of her seat. Haeundae means “the platform of the sea and the clouds.” The city was beautiful and we were warm and together. Ahead was a long walk home. There wasn’t much else to do but be happy.
Before the sea I recite all that I remember:
the gulls, the swallows and the mystery
of nameless birds. But nameless only
in the small industrial city of us.
In that strange weather you were Eve.
Every uttered syllable composing
the vocabulary of the Earth.
Didn’t we look at the sculpted trees
crawling up the ridges of mountain?
And weren’t their leaves funneling
the ambient breathing of the country
into song? The hawks were diving
into the gorge; we didn’t need to talk
about beauty. Do you remember
the boats dark and distant?
Tiny as the motions that waded us
to the shores of today?
That wasn’t our place,
but it was our silence.
How I wish we were places
known only for what surrounds them.
Laguna only a lagoon.
Cubao only a hunchback
who lived atop a hill.
I wish to be known in history
only for a proximity to you;
for the springs and the pines
and the woods between us,
where nothing else exists
but breeze and silence
behind every opened door;
where I no longer write,
but sit by whatever fire we can build,
where I can look at you
from afar, close my eyes,
and revel in your breathing.
I was waiting for the sky to darken.
For our particular world to slow
into a ballad so I could listen
to the wind and the many verbs for it.
How it funnels past the gaps
in our fingers. The same gust
once caught in a sail, blowing
a nameless explorer into more water
and more wind. How can I not think now
of the world’s minor inventors?
Take the word brisk and the joy
that comes with watching
our existence acquire
a tiny sliver of precision.
I don’t think we have a choice.
The world is a beautiful place
and we are overwhelmed
by default. All that’s left
is choosing which parts of it
to carry into death. As for me,
I need this night and its winds
like another man needs sparrows.
I need the silence and the quiet
combustion of stars.
Tell me: How can anyone speak
confronted by this sky, this splatter
of cosmos? What can we do
but count the holes under the heavens
and never finish?
The world is tiny and brisk.
We are all alone.
The plan was to watch the sky darken
Yet to my left are schoolboys shouting,
pelting rocks into the bay.
This was the exact scene
of a dream I once had.
I was wearing a coat of light
on my feet and spoke loudly.
I can’t remember of what.
Those particular sentences
perhaps being washed
into a future dream.
These past years I have learned nothing
but patience. About anything else,
I was probably wrong.
The boys’ arms are worn now
and they are not talking.
They do not know they are a form of sacredness
in any story of any man
stranded between joy and sadness.
I just want them to remember
How easy laughter
will always be.
How the world, sometimes,
decides to be just a little warmer.
and slowly to my room
in an old style hotel,
I take a wrong turn.
A hall of paper doors
are sliding open
to the ocean.
to concrete pillars.
naming all the birds.
Hato, tsuru, suzume.
Every person was a coast.
How do I decide
what it means?
All of it is beautiful.
The rooster too
chasing a scared child
around the tatami room.
I drop my bags
onto the sofa in wonder:
How fast I have gone
from being lost
to being where I desired.
I have no reason
for telling you this.
Only that I once read
a poem in a pier
for you. And that
was the only plan.
Not the rain.
Not the Chinese drunks
laughing about business
in the hotel bar.
Not falling in love with you
again and again,
as if we were empty
bookshelves in a library:
metaphor for our hope
for all the five-year olds
sitting calmly by the shore—
that they will all have
something meaningful to say
one day. Some days, I think
my life’s been a map.
What’s left of it
only a long revision.
One morning I will wake
the book of everything
I know. Laughing
at boring old stupidities
and you are beside me.
I am telling you
of the peacefulness
or how everything
is only suspicion.
Even the meowing
of the bedside kittens.
Then maybe I will tell you,
as I do, about all things
I don’t know.
A life of only questions
as the sun climbs
and we are tangled up
revising and revising
On the first day of existence,
the sun chose us. And that was that.
He’s got a street address now
and a delinquent tax record.
Let me explain. I am lying to you
because it is cold where you are.
Cold and far and snow and darkness
and chilly hands. Or maybe not.
But such dichotomies are easier.
And who are you to stop living
multiple lives and occupations
in the snowstorms of my mind?
Teacher and farmer and secret poet.
I need to tell you I don’t love you.
I just need to stop falling in love
with you each time a cool breeze
rushes past the tips of my fingers.
Or revising another novel I will shred
in the hidden office behind my rib cage.
As if my entire body were a mob front.
But isn’t everything a front for something?
How, in my world, cold weather is nothing.
Only a history of you. Remember that talk?
The gulls? The Baskin Robbins in winter?
I said: Anger is almost always shame
in an existential crisis, writing poetry
in a café, shielding its notebook
from each passing stranger.
Oh, I might as well be talking to myself.
Besides, I theorize that you
will only read this in one of a thousand
possible universes. If not here, there.
Or in the warmth of my skull. Imagine that:
One goddamn poem for each world
in which our lives intersected.
Like hairs tangled in sunlight.
What’s not to like? What person
would say no to zipping from body
to body on some madman experiment,
taking notes on the many cuisines
of love, giving each of them names
like they were your children.
“Instead of love, why not sky?
A species of bird? Or the changing
climate of the heart?” I give up.
I am thinking of names now
as a breeze passes and I do not love you.
I am merely enjoying the cold
in the national park of myself.
As if the origin story of something
entirely unimportant were about to begin.
A new sub-breed of sparrows.
An alternative to happiness.
Curtains raising to a new color of sky.