sisyphus

do you have an hour of quiet in a day
before the maelstrom arrives expectedly
that constancy of running, we are 
almost no more like mice on a wheel

who told us to fancy we are builders
of concept on boats with a definition 
ever-changing with the ebb, we realise

there is no familiar ocean
no finish line for the living.

The ways we go

Two nights ago, I dreamed of pulling a tooth---
two, an incisor and a molar.  There would have been
third, but in the dream it stopped being loose---

and I woke up distraught.  Dreams of teeth

are not good in this country of dreamers, they mean
death.  I spent the rest of the hours watching
for light.  Morning, she tells me, 

death in the family, but it could also mean simply

change

exactly the way I was told the first time
a reader explained the cards before reading.
A transition, she had said, gesturing at a cup.

What do I know?  What do I know?

I called my mother in the dark of morning
she replied, pray.
In the corner I watch the stillness and the quiet

Who knows?  Who knows?

J-- had a stroke of luck right after our meeting, 
and passed away.  A woman with terminal cancer
brought her oxygen tank to listen to a poetry reading.

The Danish neighbour hit the truck at the freeway

the same day my new motorcycle arrived.
His wife and months-old child I had greeted just that morning,
and she had spoken kindly to the dogs.

Who knows?  Who knows?

There is an envelope upstairs waiting for the last paper.
There could be a leaving, but do I dare 
finally go?

temper like water

I thank and not thank the universe for 
my temper like water, cool and slow
to anger, boiling and vengeful.

I walk away from trouble when I can

detour; sometimes a U-turn, which
is not good:  someone always ends
losing a job, difficult in this country.

A day the universe conspires being

bad is few and quite far between,
but not so rare as not to happen.
What do you do when it comes

settle a moment on you?

new dog

Centollella is dead.  The poor poet reduced into shreds
the mutilated book under the couch.  I should have but did not
have heart to punish the guilty, the dog
who also tore limb of bag, face of slippers 
belly of the couch.  Such threat this canine

having survived a world unimaginable at the downtown parking lot
given to me by two German women, foster parents themselves
of local street dogs, breed I've never had before.

A different how in loving I am yet to know
this little dog who bites in play and affection
who eats her meals with the lived memory of starvation
who curls herself in sleep, little feral in fetal position.

Return to Sta. Rosa

The port is no longer the same.  What do you remember now of what used to be clear
her full name and the story your arriving at twelve with an aunt 

who gave away crayons to children who never had.  An exchange
letters long before the first shy hello what else to say you both looked at your shoes 

hers polished and special for the occasion, yours taken for granted.
Did the letters continue after that Christmas, you no longer remember 

she had come to Opon City with a story about a factory but truly the story 
was lost long before that.  The pump boat comes as close as it could get 

someone has to push you on a pram the rest of the way.  Your lady love
holds your hand and marvels even after hearing the same story again and again 

the port was never mentioned, long and beautiful with white outrigger boats
in the morning, locals brown and beautiful with pails of mussels and sea urchin.  

The lady love points a marker in your repeated story, you find you do not remember
except a full name and a greeting in the local language so you say hello.

For a colleague, on his passing

The next day everything else remain in place.
No single death can move a sheet of paper 
held by paperweight on your table, waiting for your signature. 
It is a common enough thing such tangible patience
steady and all of us passing.  We sing anyway 
as much to ourselves as to you who must be amused by now.