This washcloth is a bunched flower
Of cotton turning to silk by the dipping
Under the silver faucet.
Folds of forgotten robes, Turin shrouds
All, forms its blossoms, wet petal by
Rain water holy in a basin of glass…
Music wells, the songs of souls, names
In our systems, an on-call universe…
I can’t remember all of them, angel
Thief in my wordy religion, but
Leaves, page after page, pours the faces
So many bathed
Bodies, such consoling love, simple
In this kingdom of sighing skin, these
Cathedral cell vessels.
In the end bells & candles give permission
And there is not at all any theft—
Angels of memory, known, unknown,
Heaven hinting, roomfuls of views
Through you and through you…
This cloth is the touch of all of that:
Behold the held.