it’s been a while since it rained in the southern tagalog region
rained hard enough to hear under the sheets over the pillows
the windows are tight-locked and foggy, it is uncertain
which is colder, harsher: the outside or the inside or an equilibrium
the greens have never looked so pretty: damp and in the gray, gray skies
it’s like that time in june of 2015, except it’s not early morning: it’s late
it’s all too late. all too late that water is cold and no one wants coffee
no one deserves the warm comfort of not-oblivion or anything, really
at least the acrostic from five years ago made some sense—wanted to, tried to
the point was that poetry tried to show what it couldn’t help but hide
because it wanted to know too, wanted to know as well
when is this rain ever going to end.
alternatively: whenever this rain is going to end
is part of answers for no-questions
the lull of stagnant waters is deafening; the road in 1954 has il matto in flames
no one wants to know why the rain stopped, but it didn’t
