Ibises

Slowing to a halt under the withered
arms of a poinciana that shaded


my windows against summer's glare,
I am greeted by a swarm of police cars


among the yellowing notes of foreclosure
on my neighbor's lawn, the red and blue



lights almost blind me to the lifting
wings of ibises digging for rumor


and insects in the wet grass blackened
by the grunts of SUVs lumbering


towards chaos and traffic
flowing under a sickle moon


that binds this earth with one promise
as she catches the tails of overhead


cargo planes--the raw music of the city
clinging to my shirt, as I drag my shadow


up the driveway, open the door to the usual
quarrel about mortgages and money


that silts my eyes with soot, my tongue
with grime, and bows the head of rain


lilies, their pursed lips barely whispering,
"Let there be peace in this house."