Phosphorescent Hemorrhages

There is light
and then refractions of it.
I've settled in refractions long enough
to forget about the light.

Per one myth, Yamashita built a teahouse for his little daughter
on top of a hill surrounded by pines.
I've stood inside that teahouse several mornings
looking outside that circular window,
waiting for the gumamela flower to drop on unfurling fog.

Kiitsu, the Japanese call it—Returning-to-One.
Daishizen, the Japanese call it—Great Nature.
Daiseimei, the Japanese call it—Great Life.

But what use are refractions to a decimated light

flickering
over the unmoving eye of a mother
half-buried under a mound of garbage in Binaliw

flickering
over piles of floating plastic sachets
drifting in Manila Bay

flickering
over water striking ore, trickling down faucets,
trickling down pumps in Didipio

Tell me
what stories must I tell
when embers die out?