Tuesday, August 7, 1984

SHORT OAHU poems


The Punchball Crater
serves up a strange broth,
bones of the dead.


As we rise in elevation,
they roll the beverage cart down the hill
to the thirsty galleys of passengers.


Molokai very barely visible in the mist.
Haleakala, the house of the sun,
rises up above the clouds, and yawns.


The pink cuticle of the sea at sunset
pushes back the night
the mountains of the Big Island
rise up for miles and miles and miles.

8/7


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