Unless I wash you

Water in the basin,
unstilled by the work
of callused skin.

Gather here, around the basin,
and look how she lowers herself
on her friend’s seated knee,
look how the knee steadies
at the grip of the palm.
Look how the wrinkled hand goes down,
how the refuse flees at clutch,
at patient touch, how the cloth
draws in the unstill water,
and the foot glistens just-dry, and the
hand, again to the knee,
lifts, no longer alone,
with the legs of another.

Cleaning, we learn,
is not solitude, but a Body,
its aching joints, strained flesh,
unstilling the space
between Itself.

Prayer Ride

O God, let the tire rubber give,
and the hands still.
Let the roadside grass
unsmother the blooms
of this acreage.
Let the broken glass
shimmer and smooth on the wind, the pavement,
and water, again, return to the creek.
The hard wood of the street sign,
let it hang nameless, and call out
to the wordless of this land.

Let it spring up wild,
more than those who watch for the
morning,
more than those who watch for the
morning.