The canal stream is made of glass
and only birds break the water edge
to pose as though painted.
My ticket is for the Chinese junk
screened by bending mulberry trees
on the far bank. In the falling dark
couples stroll beckoned by small gods
who puff the little boat s green sail.
A tiller man stands alone, bending,
silent, guiding among the slick reeds
and somnambulant sea turtles.
I come for you with shining eyes,
the only illuminator as we pass idle
ducks who ruffle oily wings as bon
voyage for our journey.