The First 48 Hours

Hello, Seoul

These hills remind me of Athens. Every year, August burned so hot I couldn’t walk to class without sweating through my clothes first. Some things never change. Maybe August is one of them. This city sounds like Georgia, which is to say it sounds like cicadas. Apples the size of cherries grow from the tree overhead. As I pass the open window, the man sings softly, poorly. The woman groans. He laughs. Some things never change. Maybe this right here is one of them.