One March afternoon in 1969 I was on the deck of a Chinese junk listening to the water clop against the wooden hull and enjoying a breeze that blew toward the South China Sea. The junk bobbed ... [+]
this shower comes at night, before the heat has sputtered on and the oven hisses gas with dinner—
there is no new dirt for soap to strip away; only distraction for the hands and arms and fingertips
wandering beneath the cascades of steam, breaking soft over bleach stained curtains onto chipped tile floor
arranging myself from patches of fog in the mirror—
eyelid
knot of hair, incisor—
greeting a new face with each ritual
there is no new dirt for soap to strip away; only distraction for the hands and arms and fingertips
wandering beneath the cascades of steam, breaking soft over bleach stained curtains onto chipped tile floor
arranging myself from patches of fog in the mirror—
eyelid
knot of hair, incisor—
greeting a new face with each ritual