The sweet rightness,
the love triangle
of me, the tap, the world,
where every hurt and burn and need
can be washed away,
glittering on dampened wings
and down the drain.
The cleanse, a creature of forever,
a holy touch that leaves
my sodden human skin
a thing of wonder
for those moments
when the water,
fallen with my sin,
sheens angled fingers
held out straight
to admire the clean.
Some small time later destiny reasserts
and I am unclean again,
the degrees of dirt a detail
in the grand cosmic tale
played out over the familiar stainless shrine.
Wash me clean, my fingers say
and tingle as I stretch
towards the cold flash of heaven.
© Amanda J Harrington 2016