Joseph Gunho Jang

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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