(i see) two scions dance in traffic: sun and moon, sky and stars; God’s two heirs dancing in traffic as if they weren’t demigods but small maya birds - transfixed mortals, fighting to keep away from the blinding might their status affords them.
as His children their world and its light is for their taking, of which they can feed - or not: they go on instead like hungry wolves, next to I, rising (sidelined, falling) flagging down jeeps in the thick of the Vinzons Hall jeepney stop. They bark loud and cheerily to keep idle; from unravelling their wax-worn strings. They are birds guided by concrete routes, those yearning to feel its bleakness
in each syllable creeping up their gold-and-marble throats: the soft choke of exhaust smoke and the rosiness of their gaunt in the face of all-knowing fate: that of snatching from death a world not theirs. They declare: “Perseus we are not, and Janus we choose.” They shuttlling commuters obscure and without fuss and without end to and fro, where they come
they spit on the universe in baggy basketball shorts