The writing on the faces is an early prototype of Hangul.
An alphabet designed for the benefit of literacy,
invented by the most celebrated leader in Korea past,
statues abound, his visage gracing the front
of the cash rarely used anymore.

The man who will soon be gone has a yellow rain jacket draped
over his right arm. In that same hand he holds his phone,
although he is looking up right then, not down.
It is hot. He is the only one on the path.
His posture indicates a citizen who has served
his army duty. Precise: nose, lips, jaw. Close-cropped
hair. Healthy, grim and slender, mid-50s, perhaps,
he wears an analog watch, holds some kind of pamphlet in his left hand.

Behind him, an ad for a pizza house. But more important,
flowers, so many flowers. Peonies the size of a skull.
Big fluffy cloud white flowers draping over his essence.
There is a walk and it is gravel. Concrete just beside.
And then grass: some green, some brown,
it is so hot, as we’ve said. The pizza house is also a brewery.
This is a picture of wealth or normality. In the garden,
the two heads converse. One purple, one brown,
they’re books, it turns out, they’re reading. And they’re speaking
in the language of the common and in the language of the self.
Everything is on the table. Open dialogue. Nothing rotten.
Nothing lost except the words between them, which escape
into the air once said, no one there to pick them up.