Outside, the flies hover
lonely in their sleep,
And cogon grass grows and
bows, and then grows some more
To bow some more, and the
air feels like it’s January
And maybe it is. It has
always been this way:
Between the moment heard and
the moment recognized as song,
We always have some sad
distance to go. It appears then the uncertain,
The fog-thought void always
between us and the palpable lush
Should be looked upon as if
we had no fear of fault, as if
We had a whole country to
pier our regrets,
As if in the constant
practice of this gaze,
We lose all expectation for
song.
