This night
this of warm stars the koa widens into
was more than all others improbable five years ago.
I try to touch something for the sake of belief;
There's nothing between myself and the dark I reach
but need.
Answers I conjure
are as unlikely as these clamorous clouds
brightening without a moon
that raven on darkness.
Did I give myself ever?
And if I did,
why do I not eat darkness now?
The aloe would prickle, not heal.
The barbed hala would scrape a throat
washed with the venomous milk of oleander.
Weakness could feed me on strange meals.
Therefore I will not eat.
What have I to do with hunger?
I will wear if I can the cool civility of the koa
whose leaves are like crescents of moon.
This tree of quiet
can still in its wide branches equally
distances of the wheeling constellations
or my own failed peace.
What are years, after all, when they are gone?
Time widens the dark tree.
I have reached this night.