I woke up feeling clean.
The kind of clean you find on your teeth,
after they have picked and scratched and
scrubbed them to that white hue with sharp tools
we are all afraid of using ourselves.
The inner lining of my skin is now smooth
and finally worth leaning on.
I feel clean. I am sure this is what it feels like.
Because to know clean you must first be
friends with filthy, an acquaintance of crummy
and a distance relative callous.
I have known these things
as they have stuck to my being before,
made my insides rust and flake off
in a flurry of inconceivable nightfall
This I know. I know both.
Today, I can perceive and receive a morning of clean,
with hands visible to the valley in my own fingerprints
exposed and extended, almost transparent,
almost fragile, almost open, almost there.
Reaching for my being
Clean and clear