There was no difference where I went. I was always sinking into the dark green sea, And pebbles gleamed, startled by hard waves. We were as identical as stones rubbed smooth. The black tide of a born sea would swell, And I prayed to be where I wanted to be from.
Moths at COEX Mall
The shoppers in coats like moths by firelight congregate. Touching and touched. Suddenly, a piece
of fabric, thread or such, is in my mouth, it is soot from a moth’s wings, it is salt of a wave, out
of the particles, a winged thing landing on my lips as a deformed mustache. The cold underbelly
of an arthropod is hard, brushing its legs, tiny and thin like an extra fine fountain pen nib scribbling
on my red. The strong fishy taste of its oily sweat is the bitter ointment. The hairy insect grows
tall as a tide, expanding its wings and legs. This is what space does, the claws of a bird groping my tongue,
almost ripping it out. Its face in a strike down position, ready to pick my eyes out for dessert,
its beak as black as the night is, and its naked sides are like the arms of an old crow lifting and lifting,
holding my head now. It croaks and jabbers. There is something it wants to show now.
The largest underground bookstore is a grocer, the books laid out like fruits. The lighting overhead
buzzes like honeybee. I held it once in a small fist and was hurt. My tongue gets plucked like a petal.