by Hannah Seo
I like to set unfocused eyes on
the skyline, render every manmade
thing invisible, imagine
bodies separated by feet of empty
air, stories high—
asleep and suspended, or
climbing increments of ether,
hovering stacked and facing every
which way gaze fixed
a few feet ahead
mesmerized by something
that does not exist.
And everyone with their own air.
Below, a captain glides
ahead of her herd on the river,
above, a 30-row flock is
on its way to Mallorca.
They must be cold.
Hannah Seo is a Korean-Canadian writer, journalist, and poet based in Brooklyn. They spend their days writing prose with facts and straight lines, and their nights unraveling every rule they’ve learned, collaging the fragments into poetry. Hannah’s poetry has been published in Broadkill Review, Grain Magazine, The Portland Review, The New Limestone Review, and Open Minds Quarterly, among others.