Do you hide when the night growls;
when the liquid that falls from a heavy sky
sloughs the grime
from my hands?
It makes all things to each other naked
as your words, washing over my face-
this, too, is a solvent
better than water.
where does what is washed collect?
What, still, is sanctified?
It is sure a purer thing
where the ground is not shy,
where your voice is not swallowed by the din,
and the sky is burgeoned
with a wetness that will fatten the summer grass.
Thunder sings in the cleansing,
giving a question, falling away with the wind,
an answer, leaving with the rain;
and both holding each the other.
This, too, is a kindness
better than faith.