I know how the honey-blushed twilight 
belonged to this day, the moon-sliced 
mountains—a valley holding the last bit 
of light like chipped celadon bowls 
on a wooden shelf. the day seeks permission 
to be this skin-close. like conjunctions 
of the old city. dimensions of steam 
billowing unto faces. the anthemic chatter.
in tha pae road, tuk-tuks & motorcycles walk 
with people. your eyebrows wears the sweat 
on your forehead under the swelling warm lights.
we are prodded by a language we are eager 
to grasp and yet all we can utter is how much.
forgetting to ask ourselves the time we have left
in this moment. when the sun's kindness is fleeing 
to another country. and the phantoms swarm 
like a parting ovation.