As the sand foams black
And rainbow blue goes all the way down.
It is so sad to be here
At the end of the world,
Where the waves as peaceably collapse
As the people fishing.
They have heard something
About how to work with others.
The Aloha Spirit is the white man's burden --
All we have is what we own or, rather,
What we own defines us.
Unlike Niihau,
No one owns
Polihale.
Even the ghost towns with ghost cane
Sugar reed flutes don't hold on to anything
Except their right to be.
It's like that here.
Flow comes in waves
And angels oversee, holding onto nothing
Like the Talk Story bookstore in Hanapepe --
The one furthest west,
The last place before the mystery can be
Walked inside of -- loses a little more every day
Of Sufi poets and archangels channeling,
Ideas borne on beaches and created in coves.
After all the Aboriginal roar
At the violation of the sky
The sky presides,
Watching to see, if we,
The chosen, have realized on the fly
How to share what we see.
