Poems

The Washerman

Silently watching the morning's brilliant
light tear the dense clouds
I forgot the sky and
the aching hand
Watching the brimming reflection
wrinkle the water
I forgot my own age
Watching the bloodied
shadows in the swaying greenery
I forgot the nowness of the dead
and turned to something else
Stirring the basket of clouds
into the blue sky
I wash myself

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