Birdcall will start soon. The room will gather
echoes of a backyard drifting across seas.
The moistness of memory blotches the seen, the felt,
making them apparitions of the once-seen, once-felt.
The neighbour plants bitter leaf to mix in her
tropical fish soup. The ocean surges in her dry throat.
Open the southern window. Hoard unending
afternoons before they get frost-bitten.
Let sleep hang in the air while a
spotted dove returns with stolen monsoon.