PORT MORESBY IN HIGH SAVANNAH

                                                                                                                                 
Sun on light mist, the yellow
hills. Smoke, mucous sky.
An early riser casts
a glance at the sleeping sea
and yawns.

The day is a tired old earth
panting 80 degrees farenheit.
The afternoon brings in dusty wire
hair, and stomachs that are empty.
Then dusk;
burnt sienna clouds, sky:
a solitary mud lake.

We could love this city
a fluorescent lagoon
of suburban tropicalities;
areca drugs days
bahasa sunsets
ad no betel nuts
for the gods.

The fall of evening blinks out
silhouetted signs:
taravatu
itambu
nogat wok

from KWAMRA: a season of harvest