Illustration by A. M. RemalanteTHE WORLD opens

into and out of my narrow eyes:

a ballasted ball of dust.

Gray skies circle above

my head, spinning

me faster than I

spin through it,

summing my time

with age—number

upon number—even better

than my own deliberation

of my sins.

I trace the sky’s

patterns, probing for

signs of its gazillion

age. All the same though

in the morning, it is young.

At night, senescent. And

Dawn to dusk,

Dusk to dawn,

I am fraying,

and the world

is still half a stranger.

Edilyn Ruth U. Yu

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Santa's new clothes

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