Atras, abante
ang mga along natotorpe.

Atras.
Natakot, nahiya
baka raw mabasa
Ang mga paa
ng mayuming dalaga.

Abante.
Sinisante na ang kimi,
alon ay nagbaka-sakali.
Kaya't dalaga ay nakiliti
nang ang tubig ay dumampi
sa kanyang mga daliri.

Penelope must have felt this way.
Weaving in the morning,
unweaving at night.
This threadwork of colors
forming, unforming
rolling, unrolling
running stitches, leaving holes,
loose, loose tiny holes.

I begin our story,
stop midway. Wasting
ink. Wasting
paper. Killing
trees. Hanging
my right hand in the air. Creaking
the door is. Only
it is the wind.

Holding out until your homecoming.

you are tired
he thinks
and he was right

you are tired
because
within you
is a jar of words
unspoken
the letters
have become jumbled.

it has been weeks
since the night you
attempted to remember
the correct patterns.

did you mean
'here'
or a letter more?
'there'.

it sounds more correct
but sadder.

I tried to
recreate the memory
of the night.

I bought ice
cream, from the corner
store and
ate it
outside,
under the sky.

It was the same flavor,
but it did not taste right.
It did not
taste like
stars.

the house next door makes me
sad.
both man and wife rise early and
go to work.
they arrive home in early evening.
they have a young boy and a girl.
by 9 p.m. all the lights in the house
are out.
the next morning both man and
wife rise early again and go to
work.
they return in early evening.
By 9 p.m. all the lights are
out.

the house next door makes me
sad.
the people are nice people, I
like them.

but I feel them drowning.
and I can't save them.

they are surviving.
they are not
homeless.

but the price is
terrible.

sometimes during the day
I will look at the house
and the house will look at
me
and the house will
weep, yes, it does, I
feel it.

You
are an entire
universe of
metaphors and narratives
unwritten.

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.