There is no letter.
for 규, no
one G would communicate the bend
of 기억, the name
of the letter, which bends
between us, means memory
serves. the greater
river by feeding the lesser, the
many. K would not communicate
your aversion to K’s
harshness. To harshness.
Q would sound like 규, maybe, but,
unmuted, despite its roundness, staked.
in the ground. A tree
by the river at the river’s
its groundedness, even
tuning fork struck
this note through bedrock
alone would not convey the other
half, the balancing
act of branches
that is 원 holding the silence
of 이응. In winter a tree
still holds its vacance. You
contract s at the edge
of One and grow s outward as
do river s into their s
Wood jaw under of
Change s. Keyed
Of the melody ironing
Out—that which is
Melodized, unrumpling the
-arries the paper through a crowd. No
Wind but it rustles the half-past
Hour round as
s yoke is
Greening-in, unfastening—that which
is ours is an
H our cut short. An a.m.
of ours. An amour like a flag. At
Half-mast, us evens,
breaks the remote
future I crave
the news—Van, the H
the news of delay. Delays the news
Of course it snowed as a matter of
Course, it rained
You cannot hear me; you are too tired to
speaking of cars, the cars are
that us streets hiss
All and Only
Rain without resumable cause. Concentrating fingers fumble. At Mothernode. Syntax problem builds.
Actual attention spreading mode. Heads only requirement. Trees analytic tools for studying air. One of us trains towards others.
All took exemptions. They live in heads rent-free. Woods guy neverminded into that guy. Wash tall quickly wraparound scrub.
Of course: not-perfect mirror. Pin doubles under scrutiny. Not needled by riddles. Rain taken down from the beginning.
Of path through chart. Moving with rain or because. Of deep structure passing into surface. Nodes flash back.
We live in the middle of nowhere. And I can give you rides whenever, wherever you need.
Trees assume grammatical branches. Grammar assumes roots that end. What is optional is eating noodles. With a fork in noodles.
I unbox. But stiff and scrambled. Tree is optional. Green’s descent.
Draw every possible tree as one. Tree. It is so. Non-one.
It somehow barely resembles anything. The last thing to figure out is the words. Leaping out of the last thing’s order. Of anything left.
어디든, 언제나 [wherever, whenever]
Was it looking at the speed at which rain through trees
makes sense and it isn’t rain’s speed through trees
or the speed of looking at rain through trees
looking for the light pull’s pleasing
weight in my palms counter it
pull or push or light, or weight of one’s breathing-concentrate
on palm’s sweating—or sway, I was sweat and swayed with
the light consume me and I blemish that way ants tickle
peach ooze down the table’s dwindled
Leg. Loneliness on the clean floor. Radiator’s
outside-my-air voice when I turn to be reminded of the bay in every window, not the machine of me whirring
simple stuck wipe up the table leg, song against grains I can’t see
on my knees, desert-vacuumed palm. I half-remember looking up
to feel you there, my admiring your ankles and your knees—how beautifully you are connected
to yourself—unclasping the phrase from my some such mouthing. Was it when we crossed
불광천 on those wide-flat stones the current pushed into place you asked me did I like the rain—no,
not rain, but days of it—비 오는 날들—living at the speed
they force—yes—we were in one and it appeared to only be stretching on my glasses on the outside
of my breath, it comes taking down the day’s 미세먼지 and the last week of blossoms and the light
I slowed to wipe the streaks you slowed
JED MUNSON is the author of several poetry chapbooks, including Minesweeper, winner of the 2022 New Michigan Press/DIAGRAM chapbook prize. A book of his essays, Commentary on the Birds, is forthcoming with Rescue Press. His writing can be found in Conjunctions, Bat City Review, Vestiges, Annulet, P-QUEUE, and other journals.