falling into subterranean sleep, I notice such blackness
bypasses a pinprick of light; dreams are avenues
to enigmas presenting themselves as someone forgotten.
sleep laves labyrinths with incandescent sequins.
everybody is strange here, interlocutor commune,
still yet nothing I can understand – better be braille, or
contrapuntal dance, but still you uttered nothing;
your locutionary silence seeks no contentment.
i have never heard such riot
of laughter toss me out of sleep. perhaps it was our undoing,
our deepest, secretive entrails unloosen us in such fashion
worth depicting as obscenely courageous, the width
of arm-span the size of outstretched islands, and stepping into
that particular wideness, are my small feet traipsing
swiftly throbbing in the heat of choosing:
to go or to stay – cyclic spectacle that eschews
dailiness that I know I may have forgotten you in faces
of lampposts, the pared skin of onion, the gleaming washlines,
the white feral on the rooftops, a blank piece of paper,
a munificent Bulacan sky, or any sky at that since
they are all bleached and they arrive not with wind but
with lashes: the color of white that flagellates, that blinds,
that oscillates in space which is then reduced to the
back of my hand: I know this. I know all of this.
we were not naked, yet something
buried in the skin reveals itself disarmed, mumbling
an earnest palaver of questions I have no answers for.
what happened? where are we? should we just – die?
an echoing reverb, or simply a song – a metronomic
carousal of swan-song I have heard before persists
and maybe all this time,
we have been awake, in separate cities.