It’s easy
until it’s not,
this washing
out of
minerals,
this passing
of water,
as if water
were a test.
Bodily humors,
they used
to call various
liquids
that stayed mostly
inside
the tabernacle
of flesh.
Nothing funny
about a stone,
the wait,
a noose around the
neck. It
is easy
until it is not,
this tinkling,
this
returning to the
earth
what was not used,
in gratitude.