Day 337

In the street filled with sewage,
children are taking showers in the rain.  
They take off their shirts, run their fingers
through each other’s hair.
You can hear their laughter.
How we want to be washed clean, I
think. How we long to step out
into our lives over and over
as though we could make ourselves freshly,
as though we could begin again
whatever we need to begin.
The rain is always new; the same rain
has never fallen before
on this ruined ground, on these streets
filled with rot, with pus,
with the stench of loss.
When the children
open their mouths, they catch
raindrops that fall
from elsewhere, that have not
been absorbed yet into this horror.