Sequined with baby jellyfish as bright as diamonds
the satin of the Pacific
undulates at dusk
to the lament of conch shells.
Groaning like fog horns,
they mourn the daily death of the sun,
perched on the edge of the ocean like a ball of molten amber,
poised to drop from our sight
and to bounce back in the morning.
The orb we see
is merely phenomenal.
The sun as noumenon has already sunk.
It belongs to Immanuel Kant,
who never wiggled his toes in the sand of Keowakapu Beach
here on Maui's southern strand
where now we stand,
close to the caroling surf
and the acrobatics of humpback whales from Alaska.
By hugging that globe with our eyes as it plunges,
we hope for a vision of spurting green,
harbinger of eventide.
Kihei Town is not Knigsberg.
The only transcendental dialectic in Hawaiian metaphysics
is found underwater,
where I zigzag the reef
in pink flippers rented from Snorkel Bob
and mirror in my motion
a butterfly fish
fluttering askew through caves of opalescent coral.