One must not leave the island
to hear the waves of grief
waiting on the outside
to be healed
— so the rainbow rooster cries
like a pure slack-key guitar
to the lava people: lush black rocks
made love to by forever's new white
ocean, that honors every singular
with a flower
in the moment of merger,
the breakers touching home
then, just as insistent, receding,
desiring no desire
— so the awkward palms might say,
swaying in no direction but their own.
The grasses stretch their arms.
Long roots hang down like earth's raw nerves
from the giant empty heads above
in the koa, in the stone,
in emerald gold, blue cloud.
They seem to want a voice
from something that is lost,
not the red dirt river of life that takes
from place to place;
this endless wave of beauty wants to hear ... us,
just as endless
but blessed with the curse:
a sense for
The sound of rain on the page
as the children are washed away.
The white hibiscus like a sniffing bee.