as I sit beneath the spinning fan,
hearing some sort of vibration
motivate itself behind
forest geisha eyes in a
she is present, wandering
dappled between dark fronds
There is no way I lucked out––
I must have had some purpose
The rooster crows, it is 1:25 am,
everyone sleeps to prepare for
El Nino parched tomorrow
University road wreathed with old trees,
Spanish moss hanging,
I dream of mongo and inasal,
the never forgotten truth
of native chicken, free to roam.
I worry about Dumaguete,
even this sleepy town exploding at the seams,
and what comes in unplanned tomorrow.
I plot fabric while planning freedom.
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