At the statue of Kun Iam
standing on a spit at the end
of old landfill, obscured
by the warm fog swirling
over the dirty brown river
a white female ghost
goddess protecting wooden
fishing junks, only tourists
from the ferries walk by
across the road one of
the new glittering casinos
crowded at all hours—
Buddhist meditation
music floats in the mist
bamboo flute ethereal over
the water, a mysterious
noise issuing from the clouds
in all directions beneath
the blare of voices, taxis
a slow chanting faint
in the haze before the sun
pierces and rotten smells
rise in the sudden heat—
tourists retreat to the cool
air of the money halls.