Last week, the Faculty Center building at the University of the Philippines, the building where all of the Humanities professors have their offices (and where I, as a visitor in 2009, staked my small claim for a semester), burned. People lost treasures, books, manuscripts, photographs, memorabilia -- they lost immeasurable moments, parts of their lives, phantom limbs.
My ability to knock out a "poem" every day pales in comparison to this tragedy. Instead of getting started on today's whatever, I gathered four boxes of books from my office to send on. A drop in the bucket that needs to be refilled.
In any case, today I'm going to use a random line generator thingee (generator thingee) to start myself off. My line is: Beneath the surface of tears the leaves wander,
*
Beneath the surface of tears
Beneath the surface of tears the leaves wander,
black motes in God's wide eye.
This is when the temperature tightens
around the impossibility of spring.
When did you last see your father?
-- In a dream, wearing a sad smile.
I am swimming deeper, down into
the crush of the universal.
(No, you may not
write the snow.)
No one ever thinks she's leaving home
for the last time --
I will tattoo her name on my arm and
take her with me into the fire.
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