wind goes ballistic.
the farther the birds are to complete
    this absence, the better

quicker exchange of easy avatars
   in Magsaysay, where no strobe
  roams and only alternations of taxi
      zigzag in stolen hours.

remember you pale,
   forget you raw with blood.
 eyes see all what silence divests.

in some dark place, we must
  all have many cicatrices. blue is the hand
whirling outside, serious with its narratives
    and tenuous notes.

lightening up
the fleeting truth of togetherness,
its ample weight something virtuous
    in perceived realness is

that      all guesses wan and wild
     exhilarating the    words we   utter
  riding along the strange   Sun,   our
  headlong  chronology of    rue.