We lay our backs on the
brambled dirt after searching

for dead leaves on the corners
of the Gangwon Bridge, the wood

is rotting, with our palms layered in dirt.
We watch them slice different shapes in the

shallows of the Hyangho lake,
before we dip our feet into the water

and dent the leaves with our limbs
bleeding from the cold. But when we saw

the kirigami dolls menacing on the
distant surface of the lake, their

silhouettes dance in dark hanboks
muttering amongst themselves.

We want to preen at their paper
dresses while listening to muted dirge,

until they pile up and we throw
the alabaster we had carved lilies on

to the lake that reflects the sky with
a moon missing.