Tuesday, October 23


Everything, a metaphor

you don’t believe. When I tell you the days
are sun-baked hills until you came along, you refuse
to drop again, precipitation-wise. When I say
I am a desolate gasoline station in the middle
of nowhere, you inquire about the true-to-life possibility
of cab drivers sipping coffee in a roadside eatery,
downing bowls of hot arroz caldo, comparing stories
about the time when rain didn’t stop for weeks
and floodwater was a putrid blanket
that covered the cold city from head to leanest side street.
It is raining now.
We are in an abandoned gas station.
Do you feel the tug between symbols and the vanishing
pavement? The fence swathed in vine and the surrender. This body
      and the endless shivering.

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