Pearl Ridge

I try to take this picture for you. But the signal stalls from my finger to these crashing mountains, to these boys straying too close to the lions in a zoo, to this corner apartment on the 40th floor somewhere in my childhood in Makiki before the end of the world, I know because the huge white dome lands in the middle of the ocean and Waikiki is a ghost town, the Moana buried beneath miles of sand, the well-intentioned plans of developers in the back pockets of the visitor industry.



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