Читать книгу Collage of Seoul - Jae Newman - Страница 8

Soft words folded into envelopes of prayer.

The dogs hear it first.

Not my prayer, but the sound

of shadows in the neighboring trees.

I can feel the shadow of the engine

before I hear it.

Body at rest, I wrestle with God,

nurse wounds in the dark.

Bracing for the heavy presence of the plane,

I cringe in its sound, crawl out

holding wings while steel hips rust

to reveal a man who was never a child,

a man who wanders airports alone at night

attracted to the ebb and flow of runways,

where beneath the grindings of identity,

there’s comfort in the fading echo,

the tail of the plane vanishing

into layers of mysterious clouds.