Places

The housing complex
Red rambutans fall, a wooden bench,
I sat once, I heard
Scales on the piano,
tuned to octaves
Tock, tock, tock, tock
Sweet ginger, on bitter walks


The street
The tamarind tree, it hovers over
Sweet smell of meat cooked tender
Buzzing, whistling, clanking
Stop the blue van not, but for the lady, waving
with a flying veil


The school between fields of tall grass
Plains of wild grass, yellow
Circle bus windows with white
dresses, ties and polished shoes
Asleep, weary, wary
The fishpond, I looked away, peering
Walls, glasses of study

The eight-lane street
On three wheels the dirty cloth of
Orange, rust, and hope
Blackened, dusty bank notes
Trampled over, the pedestrian bridge
White, red shirts, acquaint myself not
The names, I read, I whisper


The old town
Locks of hair, small, black, afloat in the wind
White, gray monuments, there stood
Slaves, masters enslaved, the gallow
Stepped, I, on stone, steeped
In echo, pollens of spirits past


Changi Airport
Wings, grids on glass
Tongues I heard, faded,
Icy, cupped, sour, swept
A house of paper, a village of lines
Footsteps, through, and went