Night Fog

i read a poem
as if walking in a thick fog
in my dark room.
i read a poem
written by a woman
whose mind even God wouldn’t know.
i put out the dim candle light in the room;
i read a poem
without caring where this invisible road
in the night fog leads to.

with this feeling in the fog as it is
with this dark feeling as it is
i write a poem.
in order for the woman who loves me
to get lost in the night fog;
nah, she wouldn’t even look for a road.
i write a poem.
in order for her
to feel my small breath
to feel my shaking hands
to feel my bitter yearning
in the deep darkness
where even a single firefly
is not allowed,
i write a poem.

Candlelight

In a room that is darker than the hair
of a virgin ghost, a candlelight that
is smaller than a mustard seed will
light up this not-so-small room bright
and make cockroaches take flight
and make the ghost vent her spite
in a dark dark mountain outside.
Then why can’t I light the candle?
I don’t have to see anyway. In no
time, my eyes will get used to the
dark and I can see what I want to
see. I won’t have to drive the vengeful
ghost out with lighted candle. I will
take revenge for her. I didn’t know
this small candle was so powerful…

Not Done Enough

Countless afternoons in her room
Numerous nights in my office
Many times in his chair
Once in a guest room in that convent
Failed in a medium-priced hotel room
Failed in a shabby and cold motel room
Never tried in a car
Not on my bed
Was pretty close in my sofa
Thought about by the nuns’ cemetery
And a few more here and there
Plenty of rotten things in my fantasy
That’s it?
Try to rake out memories from deep corner
Wow
These are stinking skeletons in your deep pocket?
Well, not done yet
You confessed these petty stuff as sins?
You must see a filthy dog in your mirror
Relax
Not done enough

Her Empty Bed

I thought
the beautiful bed
in her cozy room
with lucent curtain
would be able to
be filled soon enough
with sizzling love sprinkled
with unquenchable desire and
uncomparable contentment and
unfathomable gratitude, but

the bed is still empty
where only deep sighs
of two hearts are lingering around and
where irresistible longing
for each other’s things
refuses to give up and
where the hope for joy of
feeling touching breathing tossing
is still alive and
never ceases to exist

saying

not all beds are supposed
to be filled and
some nooks look beautiful
when empty and

having me say
nah! Not my bed!