The fingerprint is ever spreading.

Those thrown into its center

or are newly sinking—

today on the soil I had lived,

bare furniture and bones are stacked up,

blocking the vehicles

armored in accordance with the design.

The gathering with only eyes naked,

covering the soft body parts with multitude of hues,

each moving without a pause,

with the learning hands,

give birth to the fireball out of the void.

In my room distanced by the sea,

the morning is approaching in the quietude.

I press with my fingertip shrinking from the burial of seconds, 

and the city corner expands vertically and horizontally,

breaking the glass behind the screen.

Into the night filling the refined storefront

enter the human bodies,

carrying out not only the elaborate gemstones

but also the fractured and dysfunctional

television sets into the noon.

Beside the light reflecting

on the acute weight of the mass held,

strangers appear for each other

nodding like childhood friends,

and laying the flame inside the clothed cardboard box

seemingly for a small creature,

throw fiercely.

As the heat abandoned in the opened shadow

peels out raw,

one of them as if coming to senses

jumps in and trampling with the feet

calls back the original darkness.

The face—which I knew from the classroom

is you.

The store quickly becomes empty.

People’s figures step out of the image frame,

and soon the jubilant voices, from the adjacent direction, flash.

In my ears, their arms and legs and spines,

bending all the way

forward and diagonally,

scatter the swirling kerosene.

The sound of the liquid slippery like blood,

ahead of it is the swamp,

the deep ocean—to the left

and to the right—the silent head,

towards the bottom of water,

how does that half of the body stretch or swim?

The gust keeps moving,

hidden from plain sight.

From the speakers,

rustling, glittering, 

boiling, ecstatic rupture,

the pitch, as it happens, is looking for its sleep.

“We, disappear from the blueprint.”

“Pour in the powder of fire into the vacated lot.”

“Subscribe as a medicine.”

You who used to say wanted to be a physician,

are indeed providing treatment (don’t you call me Asclepius).

A contrail—the string of names spinning,

entwined day by day becomes a lint ball without an address.

“Burns well.”

I flip upwards the fingers drifting ashore,

now on my wrists torched by the diodes,

and hours are shaking in slices.

The waves are knocking on the textured door.

Gripping the iron rod,

what you found are

a surgeon’s fingers.

After procedures there will be scars.

You are walking in the vacuum zone

cold to our skins, connecting

the unconquered mountain ridge with a contour.