The End Of His Orbit (Firstfruits, 2001)

"There’s nerve and light at the heart of these poems, a candor that both disarms and delights. Cyril Wong’s poetry is for lovers of the urban lyric." - Bronwyn Lea

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STEPPING INTO

the flat this evening,
something strange happened;

the veranda became a veranda,
the yellow lamp on the wall

a yellow lamp on the wall,
the mat on the floor turned red

instead of its present blue,
the woman who looked up

from the shelf of potted plants -
now a shelf of mangled bonsai -

became a woman with subtler lines
underneath her eyes, speaking,

as she had once spoken,
'Never forget.' I nodded,

as I had always nodded.
'I won't.' But that was then.



THE ROAD

The road takes him
wherever
it wants to go.

A wind slips in
through the window,
plays with his hair.

It's getting late.
His wife might
call any second.

Stars are many,
unreachable full-
stops, he tells

himself. And smiles.
He can write poetry
if he wants. He can

write about this now:
the road, those stars,
his wife at home, asleep.

He's getting tired,
but keeps on driving
anyway, not knowing

why he's doing this.
It could be his job,
or it could be

that girl
in the office next
to his, who looks

like his wife
before they were
married years

ago. He imagines
there's no road
at all, and this is

mid-air, the highway
a violent arc
of cloud. He smiles.

Another poem?
He asks. He knows
he must be

getting back, but goes
on about stars, poetry
and clouds, the road

taking him
wherever it wants
to go.

- Cyril Wong (Copyright 2001)