Avalokitesvara on the Shore

On.
The skipping pebbles said to me.
Onward now.
and back.
We have been washed and worn.
Rounded
by tides
by the waves.

The color of toothpaste, I said.

What? (as gray clouds
from central mountain peaks
weighed down)

The waves,
they were the color of blue frothy toothpaste,
there was no sand.

And the sky,
the same,

it reflected the stones.

Rain Pome on Take Off

There aren't many nights like this left in America;
still, but for the shower that comes without warning.
quiet, but for the gentle tap of rain on street.
two storeys up from my window ever dry,
two storeys down my wet earth washed away.

Mr. Dorsett

Mr. Dorsett lifts pallets in the rain
     is a godsend in hardhat and blue jeans

each droplet is a pearl reflecting his world
     wood chips and oiled machines grayed smoke stacks

Mr. Dorsett picks up the tab for everyone's lunch
     just this one time

at the corner of University and M
     Mr. Dorsett is 65+ years old and working

Mr. Dorsett takes care of the boys
     they call to him from opposite sidewallk to see how the pallets are

dry
     they're wrapped in plastic tied with a rope

Mr. Dorsett has a deft hand at the controls
     skips his meals when he needs to when the work won't go

Construction is the light blood of the damned
     and the storm passes so the umbrellas close

Mr Dorsett lifts the pallets in the sun
     is a godsend in hardhat and blue jeans