Disparities assemble
between the ethics of words,
to keep them sealed tightly
or let them unfurl,
absinthe leaves
against the nausea of cleanliness,

And I am clean,
by this squat brick stack I am clean.
As aluminium-scuffed rust
am I clean.

In a dream,
the Doña came to me
in a time of great need,
and I shook upon that ocean,
heart pounding like a drum,
though my face – blank
as a limestone pillar.

Then the doña was me
as I hate to fear and crave it.
Her hardships strewn over some
distant hill – and me?
No longer seasick,

But I am clean,
by this straw windmill I am clean.
As a hard-wrung bath cloth
am I clean.