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.