It was the only way no puddles of blood shed for the shades or shadows like hungry ghosts pressing but the South Asian at the check-out counter a diminutive Santa Lucia and baby Jesus face selling me a car wash for $6.99 and it was night when I pulled up to the open maw where green meant go then the cantus firmus of a mechanized hum the swish and falling of overgrown bottle brushes and so much water who would not be thirsty then and stepping out to drink and drink a water welling up to eternal life to drink up a gluttony gulping for the cracked topsoil and the parched lips ten thousand miles away then out of myself saying no more thirst no more thirst and suds-sodden the glass behind the altar of the fieldstone church the cattle running and beati mundo corde chest heaving being washed again and wondering when will I be pure