Rondo: Dying World


Pagpakada: a leave-taking, a bidding farewell.
How does the slug in the grass drag its soft
permeable body through a cosmos of risk? Each
fallen bloom a spirit house, the litany of heat
rising steadily from dawn through noon. I want
to remember everything— all the roads erased
by rain, all the buildings that once stood there;
the quiet light of afternoons making doors shine
like wet bark gathered from the cassia tree;
bits of yellow rubber from a sandal perhaps the last
echo from schoolyards where children pledged allegiance.

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