I pretend I am nothing, but then a bird on a wire in the sun, a cloud in the breeze on a hill, and then I seem to be something, like these.
In Gurye, as I translate the river road signs from speedbump to otter, the Princeton spring surfaces, like when in a Cambridge fall I found ochre from Gurye.
I sink into here, I drink the things I see or don’t, barley, rice, sugar, peach, pedals translating me, between modest elevations, temperatures, degrees of carbonation.
The modesty is measured by grander schemes that I can abandon now.
During translation, is there a point of balance? I imagine perched there I could rest, answering fluently, peacefully, yes, when you say hello, and remaining just so as you leave.