Poetry Issue 4

   Issue 4: January - June 2005

E.J. Galang


Once More, the Minister

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 itís 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.