This fright train pursuing a scent of some eloquence
stalks one thorny vein of a delicate nothing. In a glance:

eruption of a single row of dreams, mute bulbs of wanting
everything again—good morning. If only; he is all

I ever wanted; she must; a world’s toes turned blue once more
overnight; and the birds on the page: pretty headaches

that tapdance in their elliptical orbit. It is the armful of noise
from the growing flowers that is impossible to imitate.

These are unabashed candles, drooling obscenities: a love
for fastening expensive silver masks, for texture and textile,

flash and steel; a love that pile drives its freefall greenery,
that can avalanche. So quiet at the tip of collapse. A drama’s

old needs. The poet, who is wearing a doily on her head,
says listen to this waft flowing from the broken white seed.

—Soyoung Jung

Soyoung Jung's work has been published or is forthcoming in The Journal. Spinning Jenny, and Web Conjunctions. She practices law in San Francisco.

Originally published in the summer 2005 issue of Boston Review