Reading is Seeing and…
On that much-too-wide bed of the north,
When night enters the coolest hours,
You roll up and face the wall,
And your desklamp under an oversized hat is so in love with its own low light.
In that love that loves itself and shines, you have written
So many poems,
And they all have dresses you make
With fabrics that respond to daylight with cheerful colors.
Now, they unfold themselves quietly in my desklamp,
But the light shines through,
So I can see their intimate parts as shadows
Suggestive of the shapes of silk undergarments—
Circles, triangles, arches, string-like straps.
With these shapes, they suddenly come alive
From dolls to women
Of visible shames and hidden desires….
I turn off the light.
But reading is unstoppable in my mind.
Then I see my middle finger arched a little
So that it is of the same length as the index finger,
I see them reaching to dip in the poems,
And I feel a wetness on the tips of fingers.
The liquid smells sweet and tastes a little salty bitter,
And this kills my sleep.
However I despise myself for being a lewd peeper,
I cannot erase the fluorescence after the light has already been turned off,
Unless I break the lamp and swallow the debris, killing myself
September 7, 2008