Before the sea I recite all that I remember:
the gulls, the swallows and the mystery
of nameless birds. But nameless only
in the small industrial city of us.
In that strange weather you were Eve.
Every uttered syllable composing
the vocabulary of the Earth.
Didn’t we look at the sculpted trees
crawling up the ridges of mountain?
And weren’t their leaves funneling
the ambient breathing of the country
into song? The hawks were diving
into the gorge; we didn’t need to talk
about beauty. Do you remember
the boats dark and distant?
Tiny as the motions that waded us
to the shores of today?
That wasn’t our place,
but it was our silence.
How I wish we were places
known only for what surrounds them.
Laguna only a lagoon.
Cubao only a hunchback
who lived atop a hill.
I wish to be known in history
only for a proximity to you;
for the springs and the pines
and the woods between us,
where nothing else exists
but breeze and silence
behind every opened door;
where I no longer write,
but sit by whatever fire we can build,
where I can look at you
from afar, close my eyes,
and revel in your breathing.

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