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.