when the summer rains
  gather in deep pools 
  on the restigouche
  dip your hand in,
  and you can taste the tiny
  drops that fell 
  from the poplar trees 
  from in front of my mother's house
  you can wash your hair
  and feel the crisp sounds
  of chinese paper
  that my grandparents
  held in their palms
  when the ships left 
  from the ports of pusan
  buddhist parchment writings
  that we burned in 
  the terminals at anchorage
  in the harbors where 
  immigrants souls like ours
  wander searching for a dream

  dip your hand in, 
  and you can feel the ancient
  skin of the mongol horseman
  that pillaged the stores
  of my ancestor's homes
  and the bloodline of ghengis
  that burns in these eyes
  the vagabond horses
  that ride on the steppes
  of these himalayan hills

  when the winter snows
  tilt the branches of spruce
  in the village of tide head
  let your hair down,
  and you can feel shard
  edges of a desperate man
  who stood behind catholic doors
  confessing illegitimate sins
  naked but for a few words
  you can listen for a while
  and hear the lone song
  of the swans that fly
  south in october 
  leaving behind but 
  bent edges of newspaper
  clippings tied with shreds
  of dead skin
 
 

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