Where do rivers begin?
Like an enchantment, the river sings back to me
in another language.
I walk through a storm with no rain.
The clouds part to form the lisp of a soft C.
Rs rumble like murmurs,
rolling through walls like distant TV sets.
I imagine the taste of my own tongue.
I walk mute along the bank like an apparition.
I fend off attackers that no one perceives:
my arms wave and plead, like lovers
who can´t explain their grief.
Rivers run deep. I think of the illusionist
who will not reveal his secrets.
Then the poker player, who gambles
the maple table at his elbows.
Know the sweat of his palms,
soaking into an Ace of Spades.
I will learn the rivers of Asia.
Trace their routes onto the palms of my own hands.
Feel the sediments that exfoliate the bulrush.
Be deciduous. Shedding cells.
Glisten in a shy sun.