Far off the trail,
in the deeper part
of the pine woods
near Lisenby Lake,
there is a secret shallow stream,
a little glass snake that slithers over
a creek bed full of clean sand.
Here, all the sounds of the world
hush themselves to listen
to the prayer of winding water.
I’ve come here often,
heart-hurt and tired,
and here I am again.
Here I kneel at the bank,
I unclothe myself,
pull open my ribs
with bruised fingers,
unearth my dirty heart
and wash you out of it
in the clear cold water.
