In dreams you walk through wetmarket aisles with me again,

 
the floor slick with fish guts and scales.
               I love the necklaces of pork
  
sausage and the alleluias of grain
                pouring from burlap sacks 

into tin measures, trays in which 
               glistening grey bodies of shrimp

feebly wave their feelers in the air.
               I learned my first prayers there,

waiting for the butcher's hand to emerge
               from out of the pocket slit in the throat

of a thrashing animal. You said if I closed 
               my eyes, sound would be more 

terrible than sight. My reward: small 
               specks of a sweet inside red-taped 

pitogo shells, unburied with a bamboo sliver. 
              I wake sometimes with the sense of a footprint 

small as a snail's, pilgrim feeling for a path
              to everything we've always wanted to say.
              




        

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