Properties of Water

In the dark, 
a cat will fly on rain-slicked blacktop 
like a bat, 
hydroplaning, flicking malevolence sideways
out of fluorescent eyes. 

                        Nevertheless, 
the streets will wash clean here, 
as in the desert they never do 

never have 
except once 
in visions, holy water 
crept, silent as a shroud 
down the steps of an altar, 
seeped under an east gate like 
smoke through a brass grate, 
steadfastly claimed carved steps, 
parched land, 
salty sea, 
washed them clean as fish. 

From the air, islands are scaled, 
silver and emerald, and beyond them 
the great waters of the planet tip 
like gleaming wings. 
The seas roll on hidden reefs and 
stream to the west 
in shifting gold and indigo planes, 
drawing in the racing light as a fistful 
of sins, cleaned and clarified.

On this island in March, 
the sea is vengeful 
and murderous, 
but the rain is steady on the back roads;
and on your flesh pours 
a streaming second skin, 
guicksilver, trailing as you run,
sloughing off your smallness; 
for in Hana, 
seven drops of rain 
will fill your hand.