water me twice a day
as the old women in red and
tan headscarves let their
green garden hoses run on the
shattered afternoon streets to slick the
sweet dust down,
wondering if today the dust will take
root,
blossom, and keep
out of the air.
god made the wrens out of deep mud.
the dust of the air: in the shattered-lace wind,
its pale wings crack and flake,
it never does settle for long, root, or flower,
goodbye.
the wrens, they sleep under leaves
in forests of jade.
