This is no white river rafting;
our naked feet do not touch;
are not shod
on aged brown bamboo,
though I would have it so;
our fingers have not trickled to rest
in ridges too thin to bear the weight of burnt souls
oh hear the wind pour, hear the wind pour fantasiathe dark of my hand has not yet slid past
the Crescent bow of your back, and
probably never will
feel the vibration fantasia,
feel it scamper up your bosom,
lodge at your throat
think of us, call my name…
listen for its return
this is no white river rafting:
though It be fresh on the mind;
I may not feel the tresses of dew damp hair
knit your warm cheek to my shallow water shoulder.
the riverman does not turn to narrate
the passage with a pole to the river bed,
does not sing us native love songs
of slaves and bucrramaster’s daughter;
they probably wouldn’t fit our story.
where are the full-moon silver- strands
to embroider your stare?,
to call me to your lips?
when will your voice settle
and the wind pour no more?
when shall we forsake distance and time
when fantasia… shall I call you my own?