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To the right of a poem is vast empty space

When you write down the first word on the left

the image of a man transplanting rice seedlings comes to the mind

Water dripping from his mud-coated fingers

he shall march forward as he moves backwards

To the right of a poem is the curvy ridge of rice fields

Walking on the uneven surface

your feet stamp into the footprints of your father

You have thought countless times about the poem’s end

yet whenever you return to the left

you feel you still have not fully expressed yourself

To the left of a poem is a man who has left home too long

The moment he arrives home he’s ready to depart again

his one foot is already outside of the threshold

and his other still inside

That moment he had once rehearsed numerous times