Thursday, March 28, 2013

928. Wash - John Updike

For seven days it rained that June:
A storm half out to sea kept turning around like a dog
        trying to settle himself on a rug:
We were the fleas that complained in his hair.

On the eighth day, before I had risen,
My neighbors' clothes has rushed into all the back yards
And lifted up their arms in praise.

From an upstairs window it seemed prehistorical:
Through the sheds and fences and vegetable gardens,
Workshirts and nightgowns, long-soaked in the cellar,

Underpants, striped towels, diapers, child's overalls,
bibs and black bras thronging the sunshine
With hosannas of cotton and hallelujahs of wool.

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