I was reluctant to call myself a poet until I learned the secret of memory—
the senses are vectors to the past.

Poets envelop the unknown with words like love. When I say,
the night you fell asleep in Jae-kyeong’s bar,
I carried you back, under the Chuseok moon,
through the steam of a street vendor’s
ddeokboggi, to your Seoul apartment,

parts of your brain dedicated to vision, motion, & smell light up.
It wants you to be there.

Most likely, you also smelled my lemongrass & grapeseed oil soap,
felt my hands wrapped around your thighs & shoulders,

your head tucked into my chest. The brain builds bridges so
our words can bend time. Like you,

Seoul is only as far as the word aloud. A metaphor is the same as action. Love burns
into us as we experience it.

The body becomes permanent with the praise of hands.