Sometimes we stick our feet in it
and squish it all around;
sometimes we fall head-first in it
and that is where we’re found,
facedown, grasping blindly
for someone who will kindly pull us
from this hole, wayward moles in need of
vision (self-derision, maybe mental
circumcision) and direction. What’s perfection
but chimeric brain pollution?
In ablution lies salvation, washed
of frustration, of encrusted expectation:
make a mess, clean it up–
I fucked up.