The void spreads,
wandering for an echo.
Its silence shaved into a profile
keeper of the caves and underground springs
a labyrinth of burials
through which the wind speaks
its porous volcanic chants
this eternal dialogue with the dead
tufts of valley grass at its feet
regenerative pools of red petals
the scent of blood
born of ancient battles
resonates its decay,
blesses the sunrise
upon which we’ll walk this day.
The sea heaves you into sleep
collapsing in a heap of disfigured sheets.
Half nodded you note the details
from the table’s edge
to the depths at your feet
disassembling into archipelagos of dreaming.
The rain, rhythmic
dissolves the moon in Po Kane
mostly shadow, one blade of light
accentuates the featureless
paths of flashlight finding the abandoned places,
Luakaha, Tantalus, the remains of Luakini
under brush strokes midnight.
The muscular miracle,
the movement of your wrist,
the meandering river of your veins in motion
your parched and dried up words find an ocean
smoldering like a morning fire
a smoking illusion, the disappearing night
transitions into chalky white streaks
patterned on black lava rock platforms
where the dead are lead to edges
and waves of worldly concern ripple away.
That opening in a cloud of spray
was a swan dive through which endless night
sucks the last soul through.
No moon lights this procession,
put your ear to the blowhole
and take down its confession.
Track the mist, spreading in the absence of form,
the void, blanketed between the sky and the sea.