I began to speak and spoke not, and those words stuck in my throat flare now into a poem, this one I write.

But I open and close the book again and again. I don't find a few thousand mouths in me, like those of your river in that far away country, which I need to write what I began here, before I forget, before a winter day breaks.

I am helpless, unable to find words to pluck as fruit from a tree or words like unsteady planets wobbling in their orbits or words that simply fall as snow falls in a dark night, softly, soundlessly.

My words are hard: as a rock, as I, as lines that etch my face, useless words. I need words as fluid as flags waving in the wind, as fluid as a laugh of a silver fish traveling up the river of my blood, words like a woman dressed in dreams that beat their wings around her as they take off like birds into the evening sky, across the blankness of unfilled sheets.

Will you bring me few such words?

Written on 2002:12:12 01:00 Revised on 2006:07:25 Aisde: If I am ever required to write a memoir of infatuations, mostly unacted upon, all I would have to do is follow these blotchy tracks I have left behind. No wonder, with Taepodong like missiles such as these, nothing ever happened. Thank the lord (& the devil too) that I have grown out of that phase of blubbering frothiness. :)