Tip-Toeing Through Java

They love their clothes
and demonstrate exquisite cuts
with dances and with touching.
Every child in every photograph
spins flowers
with unseen, ornamental melodies
above the beating bronze.

They touch the bones,
the coolest bodies,
just asleep, a sleeping relative
between the offerings.
They catch the spirits leaving,
exiting the bones for transit
to wait for birth and burnings.

It is cool here for them;
Their bodies catch the wind
and the boat shakes
with their trembling.
The shade is lit by smiles
scoured with fruit.

They are healthy, thin
desirable in song.
They are blank,
empty like some jar
awaiting rain
and temple dressing.

I see them home to Java,
to the metal city
where ones so small
are lost like trees
within this forest.
In rain and wanting food.