Think past stones―
to rivers, folded passages,
fade
the loud vacancy
to
a dream of heat and softness.
Press
a warm one to your face,
inhale
until you know
the
way cotton smells
mixed
with rain-soaked hair.
Each
hushed and stacked,
ready
to be grabbed,
wrapped
at the drop of a wet hat,
or
step from a morning bath ―
catch
wild domestic drips
from
a common kitchen sink.
tk/April 2013
Thanks to the talented R.A.D. Stainforth for reading this poem.
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| Woman With a Towel, 1898, Edgar Degas |
