Ars Poetica in an Envelope

Joseph Gunho Jang


What’s hung above is but a nightmare. Don’t

believe its contours. The shape of its body only

looks like you when you stare at it. The end of spring

in motion. You’re there, among the folds of green

walking toward harvest. The smell of ginger,

of every letter in your body forming

the line on which you pray. That dragonfly

satisfaction. And who cares if it’s fleeting?

It aches so good it etches out twilight.

The dim ring, the burst, the rooting. Stay.


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