Sure, it’s just a quick ride
through a car wash,

but dang, if the process isn’t
a metaphor for every passage

through the dark, your vision
obscured by soapsuds,

black strips flaying your
exterior as you are somehow

pulley’d through a wet tunnel.
You admire the cobalt light that

turns purple toward the end,
the gush of waterfall drenching

every trace of dirt or sin or lie,
bestowing a chance to start

over, coming into the light
with relief and gratitude,

as if you’ve never seen
the world quite like this,

which, in a way,
you haven’t.