By Peter Halstead

Taking out the trash
should be
an exercise in ruin−
not this, with palm trees
blowing, the ocean
lashing down the street,
filled with morning glory,
with the scent of nets
and seaweed.

Where’s the cachet
in trash, when it gets
co-opted by the trades,
by naupaka and the grim
dignity of islands,
beach plum flailing
with the jetsam
of the sky,
the discarded rim
of the prevailing winds?