Whirlwind

the ghost is there if i look for her.

yesterday i told her of the water nymph
in the concrete stream,
and tried to show her the little minnows
struggling to swim up against
the current of the diverted stream.
i thought the little fish were swimming up,
conquering gravity and fate.
instead, they were falling down from the pipe
that funneled them to their new home.
or is that so?
really, how would i know?
how should i know?

the little fish were swimming up, i say.
yes, they were monks bounding up a waterfall.

the goddess of the garden gave a speech
to the grasses peeking through the cracks,
straining to hear her sparkling shimmering address.
she was silent, and sonorous.

a dog appeared and greeted me,
signaling my time to go
and leave his owners in peace.
a pretty black girl wrote in her journal,
or maybe drew in her sketchpad—
did not think to look,
which i now regret.

who has she loved and who has touched her
will she forget the ones who knew her first

or promenade with them when i am far away
taking refuge in the temple of the sacred past

has she desired me as i wished to be devoured
shivering in fever as the heat comes up and down

in my eyes has she seen the faint afterimages
of the ones i took before as idols of young flesh

as she bit her lip for that spell i maybe imagined
was she hoping that i changed my mind at last

when she is reading everything i write in confession
can the hidden message show itself in due time

who have the tendrils touched over the years
a field of moments across the stretch of time

what means it when she sends me her regards
a heart for me—another heart—and more silence

can hermeneutics find a plain and simple reading
for what it means when my small heart is beating