The Cook Islands

for A.M.D.


(Rarotonga)

Sea-shanty 
Eden, tin-roof 
of clouds. God dotes 
on this 
island with his
watering can. 

I’ve hiked 
inland, kneeling 
at its porous, volcanic 
heart;

asking some 
of the water 
into my hands. Filling 
the alcove of my 
mouth—

letting the 
rest fall: beads of 
crepuscular 
light—ovals swept 
from a composer’s 
page; 

the way 
allusion falls through 
waiting, the way 
alms tumble 
through infinite 
need.