Ode to Ironing

Poetry is white: it leaves the water wrapped in drops, it wrinkles and piles up, the skin of this planet has to be spread out, the pure whiteness of the sea must be ironed, and the hands go on and on, the sacred surfaces are smoothed, and that's how things are made: each day hands make the world, fire joins steel, the linen, fabric, and cotton cloth arrive from the combat of the laundries, and a dove is born out of the light: chastity returns from the foam.