POEMS
Pasay Road, 7 am
The air is thick
with billowy swirls
of smog
attacking my nostrils
craving for the aroma
seeping from the hearth
frying eggs and –
could it be longganiza –-
from Amici di Don Bosco.
The road is long,
a serpent below
the grayish blue Makati sky
where I seek new adventures
where new adventures seek me.
I am a detective
ready to sniff at
all nuances of scents
here
where trees are stone
and wood is plastic
molten to the core,
permeating my nose
down to the pits of belly.
Imago
Why is it that
blinking
without an image of you
suffusing my head
seems no more impossible
than
turning summer days
to chill?
The way you speak
The way you speak reminds me
of forests
cradling wind-blown secrets
of silent marshes
and the hushed-up flutter
of leaves
humming nocturnal sonatas.
Deep within the trenches of my soul
you have blown poppies:
sun-dappled,
waltzing, whirling
between earth and sky
defying the law of gravity.
Speak,
so that I may find myself
bathed in the warmth of your light,
in the lightness of your being.
Insomnia
Hours such as these
between eleven and three
bring the whirring
of the fan
to a deafening hum
the honking of the trucks
crashing against my ears
awake in the eye
of the dark.
As the aircon murmurs
its nightly prayer
its breath becomes a mantle of ice
on my skin.
