Toro Nagashi

 on Albuquerque Bridge, Sasebo

Beneath, a spirit moves.
There are angels in the tangle
Of lanterns, lost in glow.
From the shore, furins
float jangles-
chime, hesitate, echo.
Beams of beacons slide slow
as the onset of a dream.

Elsewhere, a range of rhododendron
and not this spread of wraiths.
What river is this?
With a swim of light so real,
it must be illusion,
and nothing stirs watchers
watching moonbeams?
Sasebo. We are distant.

Now, cherish--
The luminaria sink and swell
in a miracle,
zephyrs cross east,
currents switch stream,
shadow dances flash
To turn thoughts ancestral.


Where as we, distracted,
dwell in Limbo,
they resurrect in stratums:
white gold on indigo.