balcony is awash with bougainvillea
and wet clothes. His chambray shirt, pegged
to the line, sails over the railing, empty
arms outflung, snaps back, flies again.
She has given up trying
to read papers in this wind, glances
at her bare left wrist, doesn't bother
to wonder where he is this time.
The billow of blue cloth gains her attention:
its instant of disappearance
against the horizon, its habit of return,
the way it stays the same despite the light.
Chuang Tsu at the Car Wash
was the only job that he could get;
he doesn't speak the language yet.
But when the sudsy, sun-struck streams
of water hit the grilles, and yellow wings
float past his feet, his sighs are eloquent.