Your reluctance to bark, your canine ogling. How I envy you dog. Because you are innocent.
      Because you dawdle in your
        coil of tonal mane.
Because you weep no deaths.
Because you somersault no beginnings.
Because you do not heed the call of silence — just stupidly beautiful curiosity you cannot word, a scruff grunt or a maniacal burst of motion. Because you only
    find yourself in a ***-lock
and drowse right after.
Because there is nothing in this
     world too immense for your
   smallness. Tottering behind the furniture, sleeping underneath
        the study, wagging your tail vehemently, welcoming with beastly pounces any stranger heralded by the wind passing
     through opened doors,

because you have no daily commute,
     no dread for the inevitable,
  because your fruitions are measured to no better than
  a toss of supplication or simply
gnawing at an old bone.

   Because tomorrow
i will go to Pasay and earn a living
for perhaps, nothing— my works remain unread, my voice
     still dies in its reticence, if not clubbed state.
   Because tomorrow there
will be a long line of people running
     in circles on the head of the
  nail and soon it will rain.

Because you and I share
     the same air yet never
  carry the same iron of crosses
     or surmounts of ineffable
  boulders — i feel more chained
     without a leash while you
   feast in the manna of hours,
chasing a speck of shadow
      or lounging at every time-trickle.