Something warm and moist
like the palm of a great hand
deliberately stroked
the hollow of my back,
creating mysterious waves.
As stalks of pampas grass
waved luxuriantly in the wind,
letting fly silver bits of cotton,
I made no effort to find out
what hand it might be,
but only looked across the river
at a deserted wharf.
Time circling within my eyes,
time rushing out to the world beyond —
where will they finally meet
and what fruit will be born of that meeting?
I wonder how many more things I clench tight
that I can continue to support
not with answers in words
but by touching a swell of earth.

Each time I am drawn to the flow of the water,
tracing the shadow
of the lone bridge in town,
my entrails seek to return to golden vessels —
a cluster of vessels
full of sweet exhaust
with no way out.