Conversing With The Evening:

I am thinking of fields again
and this country, on top
a mountain, overlooking

the Batangas valley.
There is the city.
There is the field.

I am pointing a heavy finger
from one light to the next—
a God discovering

the physics of creation
and its property of  growing
apart. I exhale

and only fog comes out.
I have lost the way
a God loses—one whose language

has died. Now, over there is a man,
and over there is the shore,
the rest of the world, and here

we are looking at a constellation
of distant lights,
comfortable in the make-belief

of having been unshakable
of having aged beyond it.

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