Disruptions

Last night’s gale, noise, and color

have faded into the quiet

of the cactus on the kitchen table,

the roughed-up mint

in this too-late hair of the dog.

Across the world, new ruins

bloom out of the split earth.

We know our turn is coming.

On the corner of our street,

the man is gone

who for days, head in a fruit crate,

tried to smooth his legs,

never right,

under a gray blanket.

Brown palm fronds

crowd the space

where he was.

The shaken tree

wavers east, west.

All above a patch of earth

solid, for the moment.