Rexroth’s Dream

By Arthur Solway

Lost in thought, he sat soaking
in the therapeutic pools.
What is it about enduring myth?
This sad and ancient legend,
now a cliché, of the Chinese poet
presumably drunk
who drowned trying to scoop
the moon from a lake.
Air tainted by a sulfurous stench
on this moonless night centuries later.
Who can I trust? he asked,
skimming the surface
in search of a face, his hands
reaching into black water
as a slight wind wiped away his eyes.
Then he put his ear to the water
straining for a voice,
any voice, as his small boat
swayed as in a sleepwalker’s dream.
Only the splash of a leaping fish.
Then the water went still.