Awakening, Rainstorm

When your hands
which are your self
look unfamiliar in gray light
or in sun
or bed
then it must have been a rainstorm.


Dragging in its fall
all the animal refinements
of your fog and future plans,
darling quilts of skin
that cling
in worship of the things
they've done and held.


So wash away.


Obey. 
Or if you like,
surrender. 
Carry trails of sediment
in rain.


New, unknowably open spaces, 
homes to serve the air,

would not meet 
your old hands
without the blessing storm.


And your skin would not be stinging,
buzzing under
wet, perplexed eyes.
 



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