Grains of sand
scattered by brooms of wind
initiating what comes
without a heading,
that which is quick
to the forgetting,
like a vision
the night is wetting
for smooth sailing
through perilous corridors.
There’s a stranger hand than mine
moving this vessel,
now capsized in the Molokai Channel.
The molten sun dripping bright fallout,
illuminating the outrigger,
navigating to land on future islands
in the memory of sea.
Poised there eternally
for dreams to come ashore.
Sunsets awash with blood and sand,
braile to the feet
grail for the hand
to gather what sails in from Tahiti,
on gentle trades of poetry.
The truancy of its passage caught
in coral structures of thought.
Patient for instruction,
the pen poised on the precipice of paper.
A replica voiced again in fluid meaning.
A representation of text,
the quiet in the land,
some kind of darker architecture,
lines of grafite and paper.
What it implies
as the temple dies
in fissures and cracks
that fracture the colonial residue,
seeping salt water into its tissue,
flooding the apparatus through and through.
Soon this motion is channeled
from the tips of the fingers
to the grips of the pen,
whitely collapsing back out
to form another fist that hits
with porous volcanic impact.
It is never static,
all variation voiced in the choir,
like schools of fish it shifts suddenly.
How to seize this color?
This floating feather
is a metaphor,
caught between moments of readiness,
led by whim and chance,
Feathers like letters competing for words
but on a softer background,
the place of shadow,
the impression of wind in the sand,
convinced it is from within
but not sure of where to stand anymore.
When whole hillsides collapse into the sea,
will it spare me?
The grasping, the attaching of meaning
to that which is no longer concrete
but sealed in obscurity.