1
And again, I return to you. Even as my mouth adjusts to steady ground, the coat's warmth holds my hands.
2
The market's grandma teaches me how to drink makgeolli; careful turns; soft swells; tides within the bottle, lulling the rice wine to sleep.
3
Cold presses tighter on our backs and snow falls to a halt. We snap a frozen memory.
4
And didn't the fortune say that oolong soothes a sore throat? If I grip the wooden mallet hard enough, next January I can catch a big fish.
5
Some engulf your walls with their cameras. Some wear dresses to dance over cobble. Where does the body move without place? I boil a persimmon leaf.
6
On the banks of the river, the street lights lay themselves to rest. Our walk home is too short to spend it in photos.
7
Sand spills from our glass and into the next hour. Listen: my throat is too sore to chant but we must drink all the river we have saved, at least until the morning's end, tomorrow.
8
The top of the tower is colder than its base, because I'd rather dissolve in a moment together.
9
Four years, six months, or nine days.
Tonight, the soju is sweet.