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I was raised in endless songket voices,
hornbill clatter, gibbonsong, storms
and durian fall. None have followed
me here, the city with a jagged quiet
habitually quenching itself on my sleep.
your lonely heart, no other insomniac
notices me in the neighbourhood
Kwik Dobi, open 24 hours. I have my ways,
and never a mood to weave conversation
with physicals. If I close my eyes
on the slosh and throb, damp slop
of garments midwived from steel drums,
the mutterings of sunburned hearts
in tongues only I could touch,
I’m not so far from home.
I could be home.