Thursday Morning

[Yejun]

Beyond the farthest house
a fifth of an oval sun

struggles through the remnants
of Hwangsa season.

While Lynne presses
alternating notes to compose

an eight-year-old’s song,
broken glass ricochets

along the inside of a vacuum
hose. Mijung coughs:

the refrigerator, she says,
must be purged

of rotting lettuce and spoiled
Camembert. Not now.

Now, come here and listen:
“Beyond the farthest . . . .”

[Nazz]

First impression-- A day in the life, on the edge of the desert, an inward moment looking outward.

Enjoyed.

[Yejun]

That works for me.

"Hwangsa" is usually translated as yellow dust. The sands from the the Gobi desert are blown onto Korea and Jejudo by, I think, Siberian winds. Sometimes, they have to close down the airports.

And everybody seems to cough.