The things of this world sink easily
into the flood of time: our shoes
are always wet. Our hair hangs in our eyes.
Still we keep writing
          about things that don’t change.

No one says anything about love,
          or hate. Or bitterness.
          These too, pass —
          The bile washes away,
          and the first kiss is too easily replaced
          with the last. Or another.

But you have painted a field —
          build your house
          in the grass.
          Ignore what you lack.

Open the door, decide to stay —
          dare to unpack.

for Gian, Artist. Haha.

Tagged ,

2 thoughts on “RPTAPDNARP:

  1. […] No poem today, but I’ve made up for last week’s silence. There’s a terrible response poem beside a lame love poem, some mixed metaphors, an attempt at form (and Filipino), and then two […]

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