We share the same path, late at night
with the fog, penetrating
and the rain, drenching our bodies.

Ships freeze in the harbor.

My blood curdles. My mind congeals.

Who is it that speaks?
My friend is but a skeleton
scourged of his strength.

He asks the time!

It is so late.
All meaning has sunk and drowned
and motion has no purpose.

For L.K. Bohang