that moves from its mooring: it was from interstice
to intersection somewhere in Poblacion.
I was once there, looking for loose change beside
the market. Quickly I began as though an impression
was made past the kiosks dense with the matrimony
of the tabloids and print: its dearth on the streets
of Plaridel. Mud caked at the grey backs of gutters,
a spectacle
of leaves on the ground like deft
hands place them there for empires.
the first that I touched: wind,
last: your face, wind was it only that you and I were
never off-tangent, always, minus the blindfold,
seeking endlessly as though things refuse to be found,
pulsing in the heat of hiding grace.
and goes back to its source: something too splayed for science,
only too easy with a child’s fancy – chauffeurs playing checkers,
crossing each other out within conjunctions – much you or I,
our weights syndetic and our weightlessness, imagined – as if phrasings
loose like waters from the spigot left open: mother arrives, haranguing.
like how it was simple for the wind to remind us fit to this
meet constantly receiving your incidence, and my place stilled
to familiar topographies.
a window is left open, with its hands in the terminal of silence
holding light like obdurate stone; the surrender registers
with grievous art, you curved like a bent question mark,
or a swollen oblation borrowing its sheen from the ****
of bobbing beacons – the candid Manilascape you kept on
fevering for like an open sentence
only to find its birth.
Mar 2, 2016
Mar 2, 2016 at 11:11 PM UTC
that moves from its mooring: it was from interstice
to intersection somewhere in Poblacion.
I was once there, looking for loose change beside
the market. Quickly I began as though an impression
was made past the kiosks dense with the matrimony
of the tabloids and print: its dearth on the streets
of Plaridel. Mud caked at the grey backs of gutters,
a spectacle
of leaves on the ground like deft
hands place them there for empires.
the first that I touched: wind,
last: your face, wind was it only that you and I were
never off-tangent, always, minus the blindfold,
seeking endlessly as though things refuse to be found,
pulsing in the heat of hiding grace.
and goes back to its source: something too splayed for science,
only too easy with a child’s fancy – chauffeurs playing checkers,
crossing each other out within conjunctions – much you or I,
our weights syndetic and our weightlessness, imagined – as if phrasings
loose like waters from the spigot left open: mother arrives, haranguing.
like how it was simple for the wind to remind us fit to this
meet constantly receiving your incidence, and my place stilled
to familiar topographies.
a window is left open, with its hands in the terminal of silence
holding light like obdurate stone; the surrender registers
with grievous art, you curved like a bent question mark,
or a swollen oblation borrowing its sheen from the ****
of bobbing beacons – the candid Manilascape you kept on
fevering for like an open sentence
only to find its birth.
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