I flow from this book you gave
in the last of the under fifteen
minutes. Me over my head,
like a shocked reader
of those backward zeroes
printed in the purchase receipt:
in love with the lola magic
over the bridge I couldn’t pull out,
play nor call a trick to make
some obese scene consume
a page, swallow a space-
giving mystery before you
could ever figure it out.
Hardly a night passes I drown
in the disobedient waters of now,
for I punctuate once, twice
and almost repeatedly
so there’ll be enough seeking
and hiding between you—
who fascinate the future
and the order of falling objects
—and the narrative whose plot
contradicts the lust and laxity
of everything crepuscular.
There’s a kind of time feeling
the same, I don’t know what kind,
that greets 5th Avenue Street
with a stability in ways
and means you find incredible,
just as long queues
at bus terminals
are certain to re-contain motion,
such a line beginning
again and again. I guess
we’ve always tied
this fleet of ideas about
Hegel and commuters’ patience
around steady Meralco posts.
Motionless, I read the signs.
You couldn’t catch
any sound, colour, a name,
another day, half-life, nothing.
A resolution is set to arrive
at an unknown station.
Be ready, you know
we could go somewhere.
