Gypsum and karst my consonants; pine and mountain-fed streams, my vowels. My syntax and speech of copper-mined and gold- veined hills; the craggy, rain-soaked vowels that won’t stop stippling the ceilings. My tutors: stonecroppings and terraces, ochre-traced sunflowers; the flint-tapping call of the mountain shrike. My avatars: stick shift jeepneys, five of them crowded into two-lane roads. My aubades from hot bean curd vendors, the molasses of their song. Vesper of unfertilized duck eggs tucked into warming cloths. In the oldest café, click of chess pieces and rumor of coffee grounds mingled with eggshell bits. In the distance, ghosts of Dominican friars and Kempeitai walking ruined labyrinths. My countrymen: low-moving cloud rats; carnival queens and Benguet lilies. My harbor of monsoons and February cabbage-frost. Monuments, mudslides and bus graveyards; soft gauze of mummy scarves. My conjugation of vegetable carts, hefts of burlap slung into the air. I walked across the city as if from the front of a small monograph to the very end then turned the pages again, my feet leaving trails of inky sludge.
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