Dumaguete

The boulevard at past-five or so

is a movie freed of reels and frames:

A kalesa trundles by,

backlit and muscular, piercing through

the sunset that yolks

the whole stretch of the scene, seasoning

your tapa.

You chug a beer, and chew and swallow tapa, spew

and swallow chains of smoke and stories. 

The English you hear is hardened with Bisaya,

sputtering in as subtitles

(with pauses for translation,

transliteration, grammatical confusion),

marrying German and Dutch with locals. 

Flirtations and proposals flutter

from bench to bench, bench to bar, table to table, 

table to ear, lips to ear, lips to face,

face to tongue, tongue to ear, ear to tongue,

Tongue to nape, nape to breath, breath to leg,

nape to leg and toes and fingers,

fingers to chest to hair to knee to waist to hips.

Until the unlit night entangles the sequence

and the credits roll.