Honey is melting in tea, completely, unlike me in you
and you in classical music,
too long telephone calls, never a free table
when you need one, elevators always out of order,
stairs unfolding into infinity, like discussing politics,
and just as somebody observes that totalitarianism and democracy
differ solely in the system of numbers
the picture disappears and we are back at the beginning: voices oozing out of walls,
utterly bodiless, evening settling on palms of hands, like a miner
into a pit, still, shoes left
at the doorstep prove that the living exist. but what does it mean to live,
as winter comes rolling like cold breath from my throat,
and builds its nest in the dark alphabet; all those hurried unknown
people with familiar names, an afternoon broken in two, like Korea,
tea in which honey had already melted, inseparable,
and this viscous solution is love; how do I get to you; how do I grasp you?