—for Will Staple
At the 16-mile marker
the melody of surf leads us deeper
into the heart of the jungle
where we slide on ancient terraces,
and fruit flies rise up
from their mango prayers.
Barefoot, we re-emerge from the tangle
and follow the old Hawaiian trail.
On the cliff, a windmill places us in time.
In the surf a man shows his son
how to spear a fish.
They talk with their hands.
You offer a red flower for my hair.
The breakers confront the fish in you,
and the dorsal fin in me.
The ocean wipes all traces
of speech from our lips.
6/5/ 1983 Kulike, Maui ?
WS Merwin's place
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