By Suphil Lee Park
There’s a slim enough chance
we’re edging our last century.
On its brink I sit or I think it.
Snow, white itself, whites itself
out and us along the way.
Words of no gravity kept floating
into water where a future perched
a comma between brackets
of waves: [Are we here] barely [Are we
not now] barely [Leave it] barely
[And leave] ... Or I think it.
Or feel it. Whichever is closer
to knowing. What do we know
after all. I mean—tell me
what aided you in your longest grief
as a glass of water.
