River

It's not true that sand is
uncountable. Everything
is when you have enough
time, vats. The woods,
inevitably, are satire
to the counter, who is
a keeper, not a consumer.
Carving motes, you can
get faster, more or yes
invisible. Just a rumor
that anything shatters,
no, one day you round
the brown trail and, oh, a
funeral—one afternoon you
open a bag of chips and
inside there's an orchid.



"River" by Cindy Juyoung Ok from Ward Toward. Copyright © 2024 by Cindy Juyoung Ok. Reprinted with the permission of Yale University Press.