Brown hair—fragrance of inland
wild mustard—tonight you read
Sun Yun Feng to me and we gather
star clusters from her River of Heaven.
Tonight, I can remember innocence;
tonight, I can say anything to you.
Now, by a silent Ferris wheel, we stroll barefoot,
too light to sink in hourglass sand. South of Carmel
we walk on moon-mirrors where the surf runs
back, your face sky-bright in playa spray.
We chase our shadows into silver foam
then join a whirl of dancers circling
eucalyptus smoke of beach fires in the wind.
Now we have drifted into southern waters,
I cannot name the stars. I must go down
the vine of dreams to day.
(South of Rosarita Beach
ensueno is the word for dream).
Brown hair—write to me,
one line from Rio, or the Azores
or the Land of Fire.
