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When things are ours in their proper places, nothing is needful but prizing to enjoy them. Critique the poetry of praise, its aimless blurts. To walk does not alter earth, unless you stomp by Kilauea's seismograph. Watch its needle skitter, palsied. It's not a political poetry he wants, but a resistant one. Who can resist this earth, its fertile rock? Lavafall at Pahoa's transfer station; someone lays red petals on its black. To transfer is not to transcend, but distribute. The man does not become a deer but he changes paths, lacking antlers. Shipwreck, mind wrack: to tend is to resist. Dove, shama thrush, traffic on Kahekili. I am not buying a damn thing.

For Maged Zaher

--6 January 2015