Breakwater, July 14

There used to be
a whirl of a street
on the surface of those stones
now crushed and piled
on top of each other.
Stones.  They were once
what our feet kissed
measuredly. I wished
I took each steps to be sacred
because the place held, unpretentiously,
something so holy to me -
like an altar of horizon
dying golden,
or a bay as dark as desert oil,
or your secrets, each as precious
as the pearls of your necklace
my heart a decaplet of oysters
keeping every single one of them.
I can barely remember
why we went there, except
you desired an atmosphere
with a scent of salt.
Now there is only the rubble
an angry sea wants to reclaim from the city.
Definition of destruction - a key of land
pounded beyond recognition
with a decade old memory
not even standing a chance.

By Manila Bay, July 7

For the morning, these colors: gray horizon;
brown skins rushing at the docks;
metallic Baltic blue of a bay, heaving
with the breath of an encouraging morning;
the black hulls of cargo ships at a distance
placidly afloat and without care;
violet full-grown leaves, fresher green leaves,
or in the orange color of dying leaves
trembling with a wind that strangely undulates;
a team of rowers in maroon shirts
negotiating with the murky, speckled waters;
and you, at the back of the boat, pushing the paddle
in your blinding, sun-bright yellow tank top.



Revised, August 10 2012.