Dirt is only dirty when
it gets on your pants.
Summer sweat
is only less than glorious
when it makes a fool of your shirt
and the rain that must follow eventually
is only less than welcome when
it requires you to change
and prevents you from sitting
on delicate fabrics
and the tears that come less
and less often
would be a baptism instead of a flood
except that they wash away pretenses,
collecting in a clammy circle around the collar.
They remind anyone watching
how naked you are under your clothes
under your skin
how you are always naked and awash
in your own surrogate sea
a capsule portaging
from old sea to new sea
trying to belong to the dry world:
this town of spies and their
secret, watery identities.