When a door slams & there’s a broken
bond, a reaching still occurs. Something

crawls out of such an event like a slug
after heavy rain. Even when a schism

occurs in a hidden underground shaft a fertile
emptiness is created. Hawaiians

have a word—puka—they use
instead of hole. It turns

out there are many kinds of them,
a whole language of holes. Kaimana

likes to take his fist & punch an empty
spot into his laundry hamper when

it’s spilling over with swimming
trunks & T-shirts, therefore

making a temporary puka
for the the Roman candles he hides

from his little brother. Keone
says the indentation at the center

of a nest where the thrush
broods over her fragile turquoise 

eggs is a puka, an opening,
a hole where the baby

bird, wet with blood
& birth fluid, pecks

out of his sticky,
dark shelter.