Commode Ode

Each day we think we’re reaching for the light,
a vase of buds about to bloom, clear rain—

no bowl, no stool, never a flush. We move
through glistening glens of stippled wood, fields

of loam, no tiled rooms, no soiled brush
concealed behind the porcelain, the scent

of blazing candles on tank-top, our ways
all shades of bright, every body clean,

no foul, no bleeding Jesus art that hangs
on wall above us as we give to sea

we walked from lust’s remains, fermented bread,
wine dregs, and prove ourselves most human,

least divine. Straining our days away,
we rise, look down on everything we’ve lost.