--Conchitina Cruz，羅浩原 譯
He drives inside the tunnel of night. He drives down the alley stretched out like a tongue. The shadows of lampposts graze your face again and again. The word is a finger against your lips.
A bloodied moon against the glass, a child's mouth hung open. What does she see in this dark chamber? Your flesh an interruption on the backseat, the crucifix on the dashboard. The word is a festering bruise on your knee.
When he speaks, the driver looks you in the eye. You keep your eyes on the rearview mirror. You memorize what the cops might need to know.
Conchitina Cruz, Dark Hours, Quezon City: The University of the Philippines Press, 2005, p.36.