Georgia O’Keeffe clouds
crowd the sky today—
some vast Southwest vista
empty, the god of rain away.
Why winter here Tlaloc?
Where the freeways run
with noise? Whole hillsides
lost to light quakes
or lit cigarettes?

On land scraped clean
before I was born
old freeways
with saint names
the numbers
I know.

Ahead a loose tarp
waves to cars
from a truck bed
flurries of petal hearts!
Drifts of blossom
obstruct lanes—
road and sky
a moment
the same.