by Han

my books are draped with dust
edges repulsively bent by humidity and lost touch
the more I straighten with force
the yellower they morph

on dead skin cells lie Hemingway and Bowen
on cinder-like newspaper lie written words that died
months ago — ink as dry as decayed bones
in my phone lie notes that were typed forcefully

tonight, I read Plath and the alluring pieces of other Singaporeans’ once again
undyingly, peculiar syntax and diction reflect the gravity
of poetry and words
the inexplicable interest in this elusive field;
a hybridisation of philosophy and language, bread and butter

it’s distressing to visualise
the possibility of losing my

I don’t wish to delineate trees as biological agents that produce oxygen in sunlight
to see these seemingly ominous creations as
withering hands of earth and leaves that will
eventually fall like long nails

hopefully, just hopefully,
I’ll begin to see things in a polished literary lens
and write sans pain