Sun on skin, instant, skin in pool, cradled.  

Early morning and from the obligatory tree, a bird sings broader than its half-a-hand-sized body.  Entrepreneurs and showers hammer hot afternoons.  Evenings suit suburbia.

All the while, rain trees seep.  Trillions of deep green leaves, reach.

We know our country.  No calling to the mosque, no flowerless orchids in the Gardens, no unnecessary insects.  Confucius can live.  Warships wait in the Straits.

East Coast heresy sells beach sarongs while teenagers begin the Chalet proclamation: I am not a virgin.  

And every day in the orange temple on Ceylon Road, Hindus try the dharma,

Oh God, the body, the mind, the wealth, all belong to you and I offer you all that back.

The great circumscribing circle, the red road.  

Equator, lit.' red road' in Chinese

Singapore, 2004