What Descartes saw
was only a mirror. I don’t think;
rather, it is thinking
——–—as in, it is November,
it is snowing on the outskirts
of Tromsø.
Hills wiped white,
lakes stalled still, wind-
chill on a dark afternoon—
——–—these are not nouns
but adverbs, not even limbs of God
but the way It dances.
*
This much is certain
to me: prayer ends up
——–—somewhere, like the bright
death throes of a star
cast into every direction,
eventually stranded
——–—on two trillion planets—
the earth just one of them. Tonight,
let the sky be a cemetery
on the backlands of time,
——–—chock-full of dead pilgrims
unable to cease praying.
*
Dawn comes late with a boreal pink:
——–—blood dulled with milk,
death with birth. God gives and takes—
——–—no, we are given and taken.
The lake is a freeze-frame mirror
——–—taken out of time’s cabin
into eternity’s tundra, its coat
——–—white as hospice and maternity.
Overhead, magpies form a legato
——–—that begins where it ends.
Inkyoo Lee is a Korean poet and an MFA candidate in poetry at New York University, where he is a translations editor for Washington Square Review. His poems have appeared in New England Review, Wildness, Antiphony, and elsewhere. www.inkyoolee.com
Photo by davide ragusa on Unsplash
