What is real about the night,

About the lines of surf that scud

In from the sky, or the clouds that flood

Into the palms, is the line of sight,


The constant wash of land and spray

Which merge ripples of the risen

Moon with the whirlpools of the ocean,

Impossible in floodlit day


That buries rustling human fronds

In the island’s broken sway,

Circles of the galaxy’s great ponds

Lost in the jungle’s macramé,


Burning eyes behind the swirls

That light our planet’s blinded worlds.


Lanikai, December 11th, 2012