Fog is suddenly brought
over the river, the dead
having sighed on their past
in unison. Earth stands
on end, listening.
The acid sun turns on
limes green as leaves
surrounding them.
Mother has planted
fruit trees on the verge
of discovering the hackles
in a frozen river are water’s
bones. Father, upstream, ice
fishing. On and on. Some
morning coheres in frost.
In the shade of its coherence,
we can bear no one.
Suphil Lee Park is author of the forthcoming Present Tense Complex, winner of the Marystina Santiestevan Prize (Conduit & Ephemera). www.suphil-lee-park.com
