“His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.”
—Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol
we are wind, 바람. our number, 38.
we are fire singeing
hanging trees. we peck at
social media. we loop
like suns around this eternal war
season; our country shrouds
smiles with artful hands, subsumes
war into strategic naengmyeon.
we engrave border into wasteland.
we await bounty.
if there are three ghosts, the first visitation: spectacle of nuclear haunts. can see them dancing merely across the strait. second, suffering of all han people, a hunger games tetralogy of film strips, propaganda, reportage, and death threats. third, this neo-American colony. the end—destroyed the Capitol, destroyed District 12—belongs not to Dickens: all Blake and Poe, innocence and nevermore.
let fall the veil
of moonshine peace.
let fall the snow of
let fall the kingdom of Lot,
the rift, the field of mines. fall—
let us eat, drink, and be merry.