it is not the tier of enmeshed leaves
nor the zither of green. none is their duty
to discover the lunar hook of moon.
   — the old bamboo is the mistral
danseuse tonight.

whatever the etcetera
of it, whatever the birds demand from it.
a sling of breath is far-flung into the sky
announcing merriment before the child
beheads the tulip,
      before the creature chokes the pistil,
        before the light enters slow-churn
           of synthesis.
  
  hearing the giggling of bush in
  the mire of wind, heaving in all kinds
  of sleep, the children, the weather,
    together; synapses drunk in translation
  and we feel no longer the secret
    of a guerrilla behind the foliage.

  it is only the heraldry of the world
  when the morning unclips its wing,
  as monsoons continue their bushwhack
  amongst petty citations.
          past oceans gleaming and
    away from hills dreaming —  by the
river, dead of heart, riveting silence
    of land, past the battered bridge in Marilao tracing deathlier waters,
  
         all gone in recall, something
i scour to find only pining away from
scarcity of remember. it is never their
    duty to bring back its image
  to dance with me again.