The Cleansing

Now, the morning after
these puddles, unblinking, wet
hypnotic as bird eyes.

So, the night wasn't a dream
wasn't a mirage, another false dawn of love.
Sleepless, the cold was real,

Realer than your warmth.
True as a migrant bird, again
the rain has come.

Now, the wait
to strip clothes and skin,
naked, to scrub soul and being

Wait for deluges of cleansing,
to shower in its embrace, alone
your memory a bar of soap

A scent, dwindling...

(From Stray Birds)