Near every minute yesterday, it seemed
I had to navigate an endless hill
with leaden legs, on avenues that teemed
with fellows who looked hungry, sad or ill.

The sun shone golden warm and strewed more light
than it had given all the weekend past,
but I was not receptive to the sight;
I cloaked my view in murky overcast.

For angry disappointment held my arms
and pushing me, it acted as support,
while bitchiness embellished me like charms
and egged me on and made fatigue retort:
Till I precipitated my debris
and took a bath, and there uncovered me.



The silver sound of water as it falls
against itself at once invigorates
while it consoles. In drops like little balls
of light it splashes as it penetrates
the depth already formed within the bath.
It seems the silver sinks into my hand
and also bounces – water washes wrath
away, massages me, and when I stand
it slides from me, a lovely liquid slip
that travels down my skin to kiss the drain.
The music shivers till the final drip
and makes a medicine I can’t explain,
but I am parched and tired and deluded
until by water I’m reconstituted.