Sueyeun Juliette Lee
awake in the morning, apologizing, the color of phosphor in death, eyeless, lidless, heavy
with peaches, summer brain, alluvial melancholy, flashing hard against eggshells, feeding
crocuses, african violets in decay. not ceasing in the instant, waiting to center the margins
on the eternally blooming page, quickest in the dearth of peaceful places. and i partly at
fault, admit it.
now the ham sandwich is dissatisfied, this one meant to be read not remembered and so
on. the time of my birth is noon just as all of us were born at noon, the expectant hour
making do with catfish, ox tongue, tubers. if you protest you will speak a name, suddenly
sounding in my ear and it is resilient. maybe it was all meant to stand apart, confirming
the gravest order of recognition, delayed. things make the doing seen, but not in reverse is
the expected possible. rest ashore from the serrated waves, drift net without a gape.
pinned against the tallest hopes sketching can make pieces viable again, or at least assure.
i know the distance hums, a strummed thorn.
i think that i am dying no waiting occupies a space, jet leaves on dawn back riddle down
the rain, sieve the way sifting makes things blend together, how ashes fall apart with a
touch. i can’t mistake a casual blush from atmosphere, fit for a throat buried under all this
libraries are a catacomb. vision is a catacomb. music is a memory wailing an octave of a
tone from me. what a baby bends into with savvy is not for memory to comprehend.
looking repeats a something’s doing. alexandria, apkujongdong, arpeggiated wailing
memory machine makes figures on a bleached linen skirt. dragon red finish takes on
yesterday’s plunder, punctuating the trivial lie with the cadre of solemnity. one thing you
apprehend is a token for basketball hoops. three times a winner and the giant dog falls
from the sky, wagging. red carpet rails, chinese eyes say ah hah. and so.
what happened at the carnival was not a rush, squirrels combusting along telephone wires
in a storm, magpie’s changing red rover lines into tombs, loose shale, frost panels,
fireworks the sky. summer’s atomic glance retrieves a splinter’s shaft beneath my thumb.
ski on sangfroid, but not for me.