The blue-gray brushes speak in tongues,
slapping the frame like softening fists.
Through the windshield, the soap spreads
like cataracts over an aging eye.
Inside, I sit tight in the hum,
sealed as if within a womb’s slick.
The whirl outside promises nothing—
mechanical rage caught in its loops.
And the brushes retreat, abscond in arcs,
their bristles streaming damp and light.
The rinse comes soft through the ceilings,
a gentle smashing of sky to earth.
For a moment, glass feels like shelter,
like the plate glass of aquariums’ gaze—
the roar of water held distant, uttered
only within quick-edged safety.