In Transit >>> ICN, SEOUL

My love always seems held less as a living choice, homeward bound,

than an object in transit, still momentarily detained

by women concerned far more with questioning doldrums,

partitioning bona fides, than admitting any answers

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Where is it coming from?

“In Korea, it is very seldom that people travel beyond their own area.” >>>>>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< What is its destination?

“I stepped off the plane and onto U.S. soil for the first time in my life.” >>>>>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< When was it born?

“7:15 AM, February 15, 1972” >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Can it prove its place of origin?

“From hearing the missionaries’ stories, I had been very excited about coming here.”>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Any foreign or hazardous articles to be declared?

“My feelings changed when I saw so many colors of hair and skin with my own

eyes; I was scared.”>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< Is the purpose of its visit business, or pleasure?

“I didn’t know how to communicate with them; we were afraid of each other.”>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< How long does it intend on staying?

“Now I have made all kinds of friends, and it seems like having magic.” >>>>>>

<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<<< What is its point of departure?

“I have found a person can come from outside this country and become part of it.”>

For my love to simply persist, never seems to warrant much

more than a temporary issuance of blanket entry

into, what has continually proven itself to be,

the less than prevailing state of affairs, dearly departed