I got jammed playing basketball with the boys from Yangju last night and now I have the sausage-finger. Imagine it swelling until it bursts. Imagine flowers blooming from it. Imagine light. Imagine meat. Imagine coils wrapped around my knuckle-bones and heating up until the skin melts away. Imagine Kleenex tissues emerging from my finger-wound. Imagine me lifting my finger to your nose to wipe away your cold. Imagine all the things I could do with my finger. Imagine all the ways I can touch you. Leaves fall from my finger. Silence does. Song does. Your voice does. I have a fat finger and inside of it is your perfect voice. I spin the ducks on top of sotdae poles. I trace lines in the dirt of the villages. I injure my finger again. I have coffee beans in my sausage-finger and if you get close to it, it smells like breakfast in a cabin on a cold morning. Please go hunting with me. Let’s not shoot anything. Let’s not even touch the trigger. Let’s hold hands with our fat, hurt fingers and enjoy the trees. My finger is bruised and will be for at least a few days. Kiss my finger. It is the same color purple as the sky was that day years ago when Laramie had its first tornado in 50 years. I ran through the rain until my lungs burned to be safe with you.