the spooled rivulets of her hair
like water hyacinths on the shore of Lake Victoria,
where dreams dart as silver fish

overhead my eye slips across the sight of her,
but so deep in sleep my presence is as distant
as the hull of a fisherman's boat sliding
out to greater depths

that young man can't see me either,
and he hums and casts his net,
cracking his knuckles, ripples in his shirt
from a hungry southern wind

where I hang with the names
of forgotten village gods, remembering their beauty
reflected in the liquid mirror of the sky,
blue on blue, black on black

I invite them to visit the steam of her tea
and stay awhile in the creak of her house's floorboards -
most laugh and say they are too old,
or that the world has changed too much
and all the maps only show what once was,
and that's more familiar anyway,

but maybe one or two come back,
circling my earlobe like a ring
and waiting to drop into her mind,
in the moment before she wakes,
as a coin carries a silent wish,
shimmering through the silt
like a small fish among water hyacinths