Morning Meets the Lodge
Maui is across the finger of sea. Four birds
Abandon their trees and bob.
I woke them up. As I go to get my book
I see a spiderweb marking each
Room, and more besides.
Mine wags and like a soap bubble is pastel.
An empty hexagon marks where a fly was,
At the top. The spider is exactly in the middle.
Three other spiders are in sight. One wants
To make his web where one’s web already is.
Why don’t I see this more, one spider
In another’s web? Why is it this way, that the webless
Seek the most precarious?
Twenty-seven lines hold the marked web up.
This island rose up to receive the bird but it
Received the palm. It was naked and
Shallow and fish-shaped to mark its origin,
Out of the sea.
We swam in its mouth. The coconut,
Readied by a reflex in seawater, settles,
Converting its own flesh into a tree.
A bobbing coconut, readied by its passion, refuses
To open. No. It lands and it opens
Canopies. It bursts and is still and frondlike is
No spider. The trunk achieves the sky. Each frond
Blackly breaks the light.