---
the soft crash of the shore
trucks parked and dirt paths
mountains made of molehills
and a summer that lasts
can you imagine it?
hundreds, maybe thousands
of Hawaiians trekking to this place
a sacred space
having heard about the beach
with green sand
hoping they will find something
they had forgotten
or never knew
in this life.
that's what magic does
it reminds us
and driving down Big Island
you saw the sign "Big Band Dancing"
and i asked who was doing the dancing?
the band, or the people?
and you laughed and said
they had forgotten the critical conjunction
of with
black beaches that i said
King Kamehameha once walked upon
to gain strength upon his journey,
and courage
what was a bit more mythology for
a man made of it?
i stole sand because
it was in my nature to take
and you scolded me because
it was in your nature
to save.
past cocoa flowers that take five years
then produce indefinitely
green, then yellow, then black
some red and some orange
cooked in their own juice and sweet
tastes like lychee, smells like vinegar
the purple part has no taste, is bitter
turns black
it is good for you.
a horn sounds off in an abandoned sugar mill
and he says "that's the quitting bell
you can go home
now."
the sun setting on Mauna Kea
everything that fades into
the sun-blind spot of my heart
the stars that will soon be overhead
the brightest ones have already died and
me left holding the last burning ember
in my hands, the cigar butt lighting
my night.
after surfing waves without surfers
and coral cuts and snorkels
and sleep, oh Oahu
Dean Martin singing On An Evening in Roma
and you, too, magic
that reminds me that i had forgotten
the critical conjunction
of with
of with
---
