Throughout these flaccid days, we sense El Niño
Growing, feel its breath, hot and absent-minded,
Leeching rain through paint. Like a Filipino
Summer, our typhoon is winded, reminded:
Sleep. Clocks are beeping. Dawn is days apart.
My nails are stale and incomplete. They crack
And splinter while I clip them. My Descartes-
-ian demon is insistent, peeling back
Pages on a daily calendar one
Day ahead of schedule. He makes me read
Them; in my pre-dawn haze, I nod along,
But can't make out the pictures. I just need
Clean water, cooled by changing climates, poured
From the Pacific silent and ignored.
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