Stairs split open. Lime and peppermint
in cheap cologne, residual tobacco.
Soekarno-Hatta mirrored a graveyard
to conclude all graveyards.
I trusted no sliding doors, no used
carts for motion. Every lamplight spoke
in blinding fashion. Did it consider
a poet as less-than. I would rather
starve a day in lieu of contesting syntax.
Mine must have been the last palm
you deflowered bayats into. Still,
it did not stop me from making
a pig of the probable self, all choler.
My splendid. In cloudy Jakarta,
spacious burial ground. Ascending or
descending, stomached by steel
either way. At home imbrued in vertigo.
Trajectory, I dived in it. Pleading atrip.