It’s night
And Bukit Timah Road is glowing orange
With the visitations of
Halogen angels
I am alone on the bus
That groans and mumbles as if
I have company
But this is a solitary din
I dissolve into the evening on my own
Cars pass
Full of expatriates in transit
With Cold Storage* strawberries and
Unseasoned children
I see open lorries
Foreign construction workers precariously perched
Faces bristly as they dream sleeplessly
About dreaming by sleeping hometown rivers
At skeletal bus-stops
I see a beeautiful boy and a beautiful girl
Standing and watching the falling of silence
And I hunger for and loathe them
For they are beautiful
And they are still and quiet
All the while
The stars spin on as if the magic
Of our grandmothers works still
In our nameless midnights
On these widening roads.