somewhere in Antipolo
tonight,

let me tell you a lie:

the swell sheen of the moon
   is borrowed.

this laughter is, too.
the streets with their
useless names,
the stir of the wind through
the dark's basin.

these words
purloined from the gut,
out of the frame,
and onto paper.

while staring at the moon,
i have this melancholy string
of smoke twining in its
  foetal nature.
a threat of storm is coming and soon
together with all the dead specimens,
    i will be buried in the rain,

yet now, locked in the arms of
   stillness
  yellow and blue and red alternations
    from the edge of the radiant void,

    goodbye.