if cleansing be needed for me 
to be clean, i cling then to 
the grime. the grit of sand 
under my nails not interested 
in the fire necessary to make 
glass. i cling to hair grease and 
skin oil, the fat seasoned into 
the skillet. i want 
            to survive 
the holy fire as impure 
as marbling through good 
meat, mixed as vinaigrette 
on leaves of lettuce and 
spinach. let us see sometimes 
a little less clearly: you can 
choose to be the diamond 
cut into symmetry, rinsed 
of blood; i’d rather be 
the coal stuck in the walls 
of your lungs.