The Poems Are Rats Squeaking For Light. Poem by RIC BASTASA

the climate
is as hot as ever

much hotter than
last year

the rice fields
cracked like shattered
glass

the grasses turned
brown and the carabaos
have to be pastured
somewhere else
near a river
in that far forest


and so you stay
more inside this house

and it is made of
loneliness
it is patterned upon
the scaffolds of
depressed walls
and obscured floors.

the poems are rats
squeaking for the pain
of light.