Dumaguete

The boulevard at past-five or so
is a movie freed out of reels and frames:

A kalesa lithely trundles by
backlit and muscular, piercing through
the sunset that now yolks
the whole stretch of the scene, and seasons
your tapa.

You chug a beer, and chew, swallow, spit
chains of smoke and stories and tapa;

The English you hear is hardened with Bisaya,
coming in as patient subtitles
(with occasional pauses for translation,
transliteration, and grammatical confusion)
marrying German and Dutch with locals –

flirtation and proposals flutter
from bench to bench, bench to bar, table to table;
table to ear, lips to ear, lips to face
face to tongue, tongue to ear, ear to tongue.

Tongue to nape, nape to breath, breath to leg
nape to leg and toe and finger
finger to chest to hair to knee to waist and
hips

Until the unlit night wildly entangles the sequence
and the credits roll.