The fire burns a static air—
The water sticks in chaliced flames, elbow to elbow.
Gray and warm Saturdays
ablaze in gasoline and cardboard.
Somewhere it stops—forearm to ankle,
spray to neck and shoulder—
Strategy in asphalt encourages
men saying, "Oh, blessed be, blessed be."
Hands raised like offerings to the silhouetted robins
dropping out of skies, egg by blue
eye watching from the pump.
She's quiet, hands on her knees,
squatted over the puddles.
"I have too many white skirts,"
she says, fingers waving the hem,
stitches turned dark and roots aching up through the stain.