View from the memory in which we try to kiss each other (우리가 서로에게 입맞추려 했던 기억으로부터의 모습)

By | 22 May 2011

Firstly, I would like to say that I am sorry.
Right now I’m kissing you on the shore
of a lake so broad it is pulling all of
the vistas of the earth in toward it. The plug
island at which we kiss is clean, like your
ears after you rise from the bath. I am trying
my best not to kiss myself but for some
reason I am callously kissing my tears. Callous as
the typhoon at the apogee of my leaving you
at a local train station. This station, its name, I want to say, is
Nishikoizumi, but it must have been Spencer Street Station.
I think I’m accidentally kissing myself because you’re pulling
away from me and my arms are threshing like the
ponderous wings of wasp ants. It’s hard not to rise from a
bath wet as the afternoons trying to feel for the world’s
draw, crying of laughter for the foolishness of our dance
around naming. But we did find some titles. Then again,
there had been that canning of the visiting bear. I don’t want to say
that we compressed the scene into convenience, like tin, but a brand
did strike the hire car, sent it sliding across that seeping
glacier as old as the world. I want to say that I’m
sorry I saw us in the blue reflections of faceless masks.
Well, you’re kissing yourself now and longing for adumbration at
the caldera of the warm, excavating lake, hiding under one of its
names, soaking in blue. Ko-omote’s mouth opened
sometime between then and now, didn’t it.

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