Four men at the laundromat together,
uniform in white shirts and ties,
hair trimmed like lawns.
Moonies, maybe, or Mormons,
not hard enough for the service.
Their glasses reflect the sun.
Yes, i decide, Christians,
looking for a sanitary theology.
I am a happy beast before them.
With my blood-clotted cottons,
my flea bites, and sweat,
I claim this flesh
from which they fell,
and into which
at sunset
they slide like fish.
Small Poems de Terre 