in stains of sunrise
this morning, as the light
was lavender, before
the time of day.

your dream was, as you
would later, over breakfast, say
of me, and my sinking
country. but innocence

is how i, whirling
watch you dream. there is
a child, who teaches me
every graying day

( a serpent swallowing
the stick, i am, riding
my camel to Nusantara )

the taste of silver. salty
like tears of joy. bitter like
the finest tea, from misty
mountainous Java, fetching

( volcanic ridge meets light
at crescent — the fugitive
shatters, burning my eyes )

the steepest price.
a rosy shade brews golden.
your dream is denser
than a foreign country.

//