Bundled Christmas trees

outside Flatbush grocery

yellow cabs flash past

    Like a blind man’s sight

    rain patters across rooftops
    tracing an outline

Rain thrashes briefly 

then quiets to a whisper 

like memory’s pulse

Rain hits suddenly
as if to a stricken land
someone smiles in sleep

The Braille of raindrops
falls on all our blind faces
nothing to read here

A flesh-pink half moon
last mist left after the storm
both dissolve away

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STARVED HOUSES

The groundwork has been laid;
the drywall, the mortar, the pestle.
The frame is sound. It will stand.
It will give us this day, minus the bread,
and forgive us the trespasses
we make against ourselves.
We are less than whole
within these walls, we lay
down and expect the leveling.
We are the wasp’s thirst, dry as rain
that doesn’t know another drop exists,
we are stronger than the storm
that hasn’t come yet.