Morning, memory to wash out,
the town creek covered with lint
from a thousand washings.
Would that the lint would bloom,
the color never to wash out,
the house still but for the folding
of linen in the back room.
Till night, in a dream, the hum
of the washing machine.
Like a bee in late winter,
the machine hums till it wails.
For is not a thousand washings,
a thousand drownings.
the hands still in the back room
the creek rising, rising...