Procession at the Marikina

A recuperation
from mud-shelled obsolescence,
the statues have trouble
wiping their bodies
off the hardened patches of a flood.
There is much in bejeweled clothing
that cannot cover their trouble.
Their faces remain wretched
after being cleaned with choice oils.
It has been storied:
A gust of river buoying the Savior’s limbs
to the other side of the banks, a carroza
chained to a post to not flounce in the torrent.
Even the saints and their animals
will not be saved from the flood
if the time so comes, if the time comes
so. To wipe a face is to depart
an encounter with decay and imprint
memory with likeness. Dark patches run
on a tree touched, scraped to perfection
by creation. Serene bodies lifted
to second floors, if not taken
serenely. They wait
for the next flood of bodies
into the church grounds. They wait
for us to run our hands on
their feet that cannot stand
or walk alone.

At the Gutter, Carroza Watching

Wheels, wheels
roll in two halves.
A bit of a dare to look up
the canonized giants.

To stand up. To sit
on air. To still
be small
at such a height.

Wheels, wheels
and some ground to kiss.

Wheel, spoke behind
a curtain floating a little
no higher than a hollow
block.