Drifting the khlongs at dawn

palms forward like slow radar,

I brush against the hulls of narrow boats,

feel the give of ripe jackfruit under tarps,

the cool gloss of lotus stems bundled tight.

I move without hurry through the water maze,

sliding past cooking fires on deck,

through clusters of vendors balancing scales,

under low bridges draped in vines.

Even unconscious I keep my distance,

never tipping a single basket of rambutan.

monsoon static

distant longtail purr

Always the same gentle drift.

When our paths cross I remain near you.

You've felt it.

Yet no one minds, I am only dreaming.

Harmless as fog over the canal.

Like a monk with empty bowl.

Like a stranger who arrived by mistake.

A woman with sun-creased eyes stops my boat

with a light touch on the gunwale.

She takes my hand, smooths calluses

with the flat of a river stone,

then lets the flakes fall into the green current.

My breath sends out small waves rippling wide.

I hover over heaps of mangosteen in your prow.

They whisper that thin vapor curls from my fingertips,

but there's no fire in me.

Nothing like that at all.