How small is a man's hand?

413 Cherry

North-born rain cicadas down the roof
fills the gutters
twists grooves of age in the house’s skull.
Puddles gray the concrete
creep beneath the shade
of rust-cramped cars, left
to sink like shattered tombstones
under a cemetery sky.
On sidewalk, step, and frenzied weeds
pieces of storm
fall, and drown the mangled earth.
It gasps for grace below tangled clouds.

A man of dust stands in the broken street,
eyes slapped by mud, shoes
filled with earth’s bones and skies’ blood,
his fingers wrapped
around the shovel blade
touching dirt
tasting life.

Soon
knuckles numbed by dripping air
as wet outside as in
he stumbles off through caverns of rain.
The asphalt flows, careening south.