Clean - Andrew Havens

Liminal flow, a space
to be be
tween the
washed out sticky
daily grit
and sweet, soft sleep.
The shape of it a
tongue
of
absolution.
Not enough to save,
just enough to salve,
to witness season’s softening of
white, worn caulk,
the mortar chalk of
tepid tests…
Will today be good?
better?
Or is it best to hope
only
for stripped stains,
sucked into
silver drains
sucked around
and ‘round or
shall we dare
to just lie there
and drown?
To close our eyes and ask a lover:
“Hold me down.”
Eyes imprisoned
just beneath
the liquid skin.
A final, breathless prayer:
“Something clean and new, please. Something
washing in.”