The way home; as the footprints taper
I see yesterday’s footprints
have collected rainwater
An argument
stitched together in pauses
and a flickering lampshade
all that remains is hate
The damp walls-
the smell of rotting paint
with every breath
sweats into me
a strange intoxicant
I am home again
Energetic sleep–
an errant twig scratching
the broken moonlight-etched window
I wish I dreamt
of an old photo, us
in an blur of star shine
Under the street lights, spiders mend their webs
Today a tree was felled and now darkness dwells
The trilling crickets must hurry, for man begins the old flite in a flurry
They must not forget in whose hand the world is held
No one has caught sight of the end, so the old order is still upheld
No illness draws close the curtains and the world’s bend is yet uncertain
The people strain and fend for themselves and dare to learn a lesson
The tilling insects
The noise of greenery
The grey moss cracked
Now back to life
The colours of houses, deepers
For days after the rain
In the deepest shades of brick
Is this home, or years gone by?
Like melting ice cream Vanilla sunlight, dripping joy A street dog with no name A history of kindness Kneading strangers with her fore-paws Where'd she go? New arrivals, the child called her "Marie biscuit", "chicken leg piece" pampered and greeted with film dialogue Then one day, gone before she was ever named No one sees, a dog with no name Her allies, a rotund white hobbler, brown paranoia Sickly dogs, pushed further down the street Under cars; while black twins and a broken leash run free I can no longer see the dog with no name
In the shape of shadow
In the light from windows
With the motionless trees
On the afternoons without wind
I only imagine the dusty, dry grass
And memory fills in the hills and monsoon
I remember my people, not friends,
Barefoot rivals on the rich red clay
In between the stone path shrubs
They smell of toddy
But we share a spirit, a history
Though from different sides
They will not forget that cruel division
Why did you take it? My language,
Misery, meaning, death
Like theirs, all in a village, for melennia
Better to be humble in your lands
Than fighting elsewhere
I prayed for the silence of a cat
In the days when the bats returned
After what time I cannot say
Many of us are visitors to our homeland
When the downpours murmured to drizzle
The roads held their breath, waited
Birds in leisure scatter, dogs stilled
On the warm tar that came after
The world stopped, but still hungered.
Kite string lightening sun leading the way the winds have come by the cracked window with freshly washed hair I see the yard, mother, clearing the clothes line leafy faces, on well water out over the fields and flower beds spring rain on the harvest dripping down planet dusk small talk after droplet burials in the flowing stream
I dreamt we walked the paddy fields
Amidst the shells of yellow cars
Silver inscriptions from their authors
Glinting but dulling, with the dipping sun
I break from my travel companions
Pushing forward, caring not to look back
The rainwater has washed the path away
I skip and leap, through I know
My shoes are gone
Down by the wooden grain store
Under its cold wooden rafters, I felt
Trapped on a pillar, the breeze pushing
The only thing holding me down
Your shaded eyes
Cool breeze
for breakfast
cold, cold, ice cream
soft chill
inch by inch, climbs
the afternoon sun
Cast your hand above the flame
you’ll feel it fade
the warmth seeps away, your fingers cold
the cinders ebb, as the bonfire cools
the night is slow to melt, yet you will it to stay
where no one sees, it is permitted
the forest branches complete their journey
and you may mourn them too
you will remember, how the flame cuts right through
