You never discussed the stream

and no doubt the stream didn’t want 
your discourse (its own merry way)

but now that you live by the stream
a mosquito has come up the bank

and bitten you, and the stream 
is in your bloodstream. You buff

the site of entry like a trophy. 
Your chuckling new acquaintance

takes your cells out to the sea.
                              *
It goes all night, you tell your friends

drinking wine to warm the house
(already warm), and laugh of course

like a drain. Later in your roomy 
queen you listen to its monologue –

ascending plane that never reaches 
altitude. Your fingers stretch

from coast to coast to try it out,
this solitude, while water thumps

through the riverbed. 
                              *
You’re not exactly on your own.

Teenagers come and go, the screen-door
clacks, Cardinals mob a little temple

hanging in a tree. A neighbour with a bag
of seeds asks you if you mind

the birds. There is that film, and the flu,
but no. In the mornings earlyish

you slide the rippling trees across 
(Burnham Wood) and watch

six parrots lift like anti-gravity. 
                              *
At sunset a rant about the dishes –

you’ve worked all day, unlike 
some people! The tap runs. The sun,

tumbling over Waikiki, shoots through 
the trees, gilds the stream (unnecessary),

stuns you in the empty room. Every day 
for ten years (you realize, standing there)

you’ve crossed the bridge etched Mānoa 
Stream, 1972, back and forth,

except the day the river rose. 
                              *
Some facts: Mongooses (sic) (introduced)

pee into the current, plus rats and mice, 
The stream is sick. All the streams.

Mosquitoes -your messenger and those
that bit the teenagers whose young blood

is festive like the Honolulu marathon – 
could carry West Nile virus. Often fatal.

Probably don’t, are probably winging it 
like you, and you will go your whole life

and only die at the end of it. 
                              *
The stream doesn’t look sick. It takes

a pretty kink near your apartment. 
The trees are lush and spreading

like a shade house you once walked in
in a gallery (mixed media). The water

masks its illness like a European noble 
with the plague – a patina, and ringlets.

You’re pissed about the health issues 
of the stream, and healthcare, because

it has your blood, you have its H2O. 
                              *
You think it’s peaceful by the stream?

Ducks rage, waking you at 2am, 
or thereabouts. Mongooses hunt

the duck eggs, says your son. Ah, you say. 
That night the quacks are noisy, but

you fret in peace. Sometimes homeless 
people sleep down by the river bank.

Harmless. One time one guy had a knife. 
They still talk about it and you see him

ghostly like an app against the trees.
                              *
All your things are near the stream,

beds, plates, lamps – you’re camping 
apart from walls and taps and electricity.

Your laptop angles like a spade, 
and clods of English warm the room

(already warm). They warm your heart.
Overall you have much less, because

of course – divided up. But you’re lucky
or would be if the stream was squeaky

clean, and talked to you.
                              *
The stream had caused a little trouble

in the past, i.e., the flood. Not it’s fault. 
900, 000 people pave a lot, they plumb

a lot. Then rain like weights. From a safe 
distance (your old apt) you watched

your little water course inflate and thunder 
down the valley taking cars, chairs, trees.

You saw a mother and her baby rescued 
from a van – a swimming coach, with ropes –

the van then bumbled out to sea.
                              *
One apartment in your complex

took in water in the flood. And mud. It was 
this apartment. You’ve known it all along,

of course, because you watched.
They fixed it up. Lifted carpets, blasted

fans for a week. Repainted.
It’s pretty good. The odd door

needs a shoulder still. In certain lights 
though, on the wall, a watermark,

the stream’s dappled monogram. 
                              *
You’re talking clichés – water under

the bridge, love letter from a lawyer, 
serious harm, sunk without you.

The stream has been into your bedroom, 
and you in its. Remember reeds, coolness,

summer afternoons. You loved
the stream. Its stinging waters send

a last message in lemon juice: 
If I’m fucked, you’re coming with me.

Sincerely, the stream.