The disposal coughs up the banyan
leaf from last night’s dream.
In the kitchen we sliced our tree
into meaty pieces and used a grill pan.
There will be no more fishing
in the ponds behind the houses.
An apartment building grew
up from the sand and bones
where young couples will learn
to bake and saute their own yards.
This dream presses me, scratches
my throat all day as I pack it tightly, run
10 miles down Kailua Road to the end
where skeleton houses, structures with no breath
lean ever so slightly toward nothing, New Zealand.
The blood smiled through the sea
smiled through me, yet smiled.
I walked through her veneered horizons
back home, where the waves of Evan
and the evening passed on like one.