Читать книгу Collage of Seoul - Jae Newman - Страница 16

If a plant cannot live according to its nature, it dies; and so a man.

–Thoreau

Following blue footprints

painted on cold sidewalks,

I disappeared behind an old hospital.

Laying on a white H,

I searched the sky

for helicopters or falling stars.

Removing shards of parental debris,

I covered my torso in snow,

buried what sought translation, escaped

a body I never wanted

or felt was mine. It’s easy to mistake

electricity as light. Harder

to convince a flower it’s fine,

a lamp is the sun.

There are one hundred twelve varieties of the lie

and I am not above a few.

How many clung to me as I stood?

Drawn toward a playground,

I touched chains upholding swings,

set metal in motion.

I have no business being here.