When he says, "I love you,"
he means,
"I'm alone and it's all right, but
it's nice that you're listening."
She should know this by now.
When a woman loves a man
she's in Seoul working;
he's in Brooklyn writing.
Or she is in a cab to Sinchon,
on her way to fill the void,
while he is stuck in traffic on
the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway
on his way home
to himself.
Sometimes when he has lovers,
she feels it and cries;
he empties himself out,
bucketfuls.
So much so that when
his sister visits,
she tells him
he feels like a funeral home.
When she loves him,
he's been gone for years
but still writes daily
to the remembered features, gestures
the songs and sounds of the other,
to the faithful words now finally said
and there's such clarity
in distance and in silence.
When he says, "Ours is destined for distance,"
"I believe you," she replies yet
holds her breath,
and waits.
Their love must be a silent film,
the two sitting with
a table of ocean between them
faces vacant,
eyes freckled with small brown
shoe footprints;
when she calls him late at night,
there is no answer.
The prompter holds up a sign card,
"Clap."
When he loves her,
he's trying to sleep,
he wishes her goodnight
hours before he is ready.
Otherwise,
she might worry.
Cars fade from the streets
one by one.
Blinking headlights
eyes closed to
the roaring wind
over the East River.
