Like dust, I settle
to the floor of your heart.
Sediment or resentment,
it is your own raging dreamyard
that I have appeared
to calm. Not with the numen,
but with a mere, quiet example
that somewhere out there, in the grand, decaying world
is an Excaliburean expedition, waiting to start
with everything exotic. We need the W and Z bosons, and the Orientalisms, and the people still projecting onto Fuad.
We need all of them,
if something new
is to grow in this gay, Kristang brown mud.
I want to know
if this is it. If the monsoons that are to come
will be enough.
If what has settled
at the bottom of the stars
is luminous enough
to change the serpent's tongue
into a merlion's,
and a merlionsman's bare-chested fun.
Won't you come swim with me?
Life, perhaps once more encored
but certainly, this time, filled with a creole love
like no other desire or fantasy:
Life, new and hopeful and leonine,
has barely just begun.
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