What ever can be without yearning — body tight, a prayer
climbing the steps of the palace. The secret reds scattered
about the pond, you, harboring an embrace of songbirds.
I’m enchanted with the way music models after you,
worlds of chords forming along
your lips in envy. 하늘
rumbling out from underneath the harmonies like snow
and its fragrant grace graphing onto whatever it holds.
For all this, I take it upon myself to chant, noiseless:
I will be alive next year. I will be alive next year.
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