In a scarcity of you
and I was born dirty
everyone around had
some role to play
in it I am reminded
of a feeling a certain
way and how long
it must take and
so I stopped
washing myself.
There fits quite
some time between
a soap to touch
me for the first
and the last for the
first and the last,
getting cleaned
was a dirty act.
I try to grip
the soap
though I’ve
a lesson enough   
hard doing that
would escape
my hands and
I even broke
a whole bottle
of it once on
the floor.
(why hope
when can’t
hold on why
love when
you have
to let go
and so
I stopped
washing myself.
In a scarcity of you
(I condemn and I condemn.)
I put my things
on a conveyor belt
and after
they complete the tour
they knew where
home was, they knew
where to come back.
In a scarcity of you
and I am never convinced,
the why of it all
saves us in
some absence.
The insufficient
times I try
to clean clean clean
myself before I
realize I first need
to learn how
to hold a soap
in my hands.
And for what do we
need soothing?
Why for every
poem needs
to make the
eternal sound?
The how of it
all saves us.

In an idea of you
there is a chronic mud
and me, ever scarce,
I clean clean clean myself.

selected for Sunday Mornings at the River Summer 2022 Anthology.