Nothing stirring in the trees.

A world on the brink.


We live like that, I think.

Cooled a few days by the breeze


that rushes off the sweeping sea,

the fetch that rolls the ocean


in to Waikiki, a deceptive trough

which, like a snake, the land shakes off.


But then the Kona’s long dry run.

The days that build on days


of windless sun, nights without the rustle

of a palm. Which is real, and which display?


Which picture do we live for,

or live by? The coming calm, or


a childhood paradise, where

we swim forever in the windy sky?


The dank inexorable air,

Or the honeyed tropic lie?


Kailua, June 13th, 2014