You’ve never been to South Korea,
yet they’ve immortalized sex there,
but not through rhyming
“love” and “dove,”
but with sculptures:
shapes released from stone
as thoughts become excited to leave
their parent brain in its bone home,
resulting in the kind of freedom
you usually don’t tell your children about-
stone by itself though, is usually dull
as sitting the furthest you can
from the one you want
to feel pressed against your hip,
but those sculptures are more
like getting close enough
to spill their drink on you,
so they might notice
how we all have parts,
eager for a ruined pair of pants
being the only detail of a story
told to grandchildren,
or at least worked into
an over sentimental love poem
that’ll go unread, and was written alone
after someone you’ve only met
in adolescent dreams that seem more distant
as your friends invite you to weddings
and Google unique names for their babies,
leave you with just a memory of a lover
that never existed,
but somehow they still
finished their tour of Loveland
before you ever did.