Ten O'clock, two balloons and a banner
have taken flight and settled against the moonless
sky, bobbing and twisting like a mask

that's been cobbled together with stickytape
and hope. An insect the size of two fingers lands
on the screen, emits a double buzz and folds

his wings over as if to say goodnight. The air
is cooler, though not much, from a shower
that tried to happen earlier but mostly failed,

merely exciting the dragonflies and two-finger
insects and patterning the nearby tennis courts
a darker red. I was watching a Philipino typhoon

on the news and eating bibimbap in a small
Korean restaurant at the time, and the customers
rose as one as the first drops fell, then slumped

like the downswing of a bird's wings as the shower
passed. Twelve days of heat and no relief.
The weather reminds me of that old outback joke,

if stone is wet it must be raining,
if stone casts shadow the weather's fine,
if there's no stone there was a cyclone,

which gets me thinking about how Australia's
at the tail end of winter and how bloody hot
and dry Korea is. The moon makes a belated

appearance, mostly full and red, either from
the distant city or from what scientists refer to
as the Great Cosmic Sauce. The toilet's sprung

a leak much akin to a slashed artery and I lost
my bottle opener somewhere on the way
from China, which is an unfortunate pair of events,

though not as far as I can tell related. Alarm
set, lights out, nothing but a pair of manic balloons
and an insect who's decided it's time for a song.