The bathwater until I enter
faintest aqua-tint,
some trace consciousness
of its own
mineral past.

Upthrust through
a fissure
a crack—
rest a minute here,
a visit
we let trail
into air,
a wisp
a curl
of steam

The translucent shell
I fill
overflows and yet
I share it
sparingly—why not
pass the cup
meant for me alone?

Time runs
in rivulets
down bare granite cliffs,
I need only
lift a hand
to catch
a silver sip,
but so much I let sink
in the sand.

Rob the bed
to set the table,
flower heads, an armful
of scent—
I trail an absence of flora.
I rend the living page.
I paste myself wet
into a book of days—
too late I guess
this lifetime much
to change