Coming Clean
Through the wash
Soaked and spun
Squeezed, wrung, and hung
Dripping out clear water
Like blood cheated of its color
To seep into the ground
And disappear
Into a muddy past
How many more washes
Until the tired cloth
Disintegrates on a pale wind
Better, perhaps, to let
The grime of years accumulate
And maintain the illusion
Of substance