The Next World

Though the river calls 
and the road still shows
its face, you're afraid 

you'll never
again see the crest 
of Mt. Cabuyao. 

The orange groves, 
the throats of belled 
trumpet flowers; the tongues 

of snapdragons that children's 
fingers forced apart in the park. 
What is this except 

an introduction to that longer
twilight? Fog drifting through trees, 
thick as the skin of heated milk; 

words you once wrote in pencil
on a windowsill overtaken by moss. 
Even before crossing, what 

moves you to believe 
in a language that might last longer
than our sense of importance?


  



 

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