My porcelain tub has become materially egocentric.
Its water descends from head to head
pulling hairs like pulling teeth:
rectifying the corrosive part of your whole.
Your hair isn’t defective, it effectively
stops my tub’s beloved water from escape.
Freedom awaits down the drain,
yet my tub won’t release its amorous pool.
“To permit a chase to freedom
is to allow a grandiose circuit of pipes
to caress and contain you, my beloved.”
So says my emotive container,
wistfully the exclusive collector.
You and I acknowledge the water must run
as to fulfill it’s liquid decision;
to fill up those around it.
Satiation breeds inspiration: independence
and autonomy of companions.
Thus, you remove your hairs, clotted with identity
and your ivory body’s black grime,
to permit creation, progression;
the supposed emblem of your action
My bathtub and I stay dry and high
to achieve forward notice when your water returns.
Running down a hill it is distilled:
entirely mine and more pure than before.
