The Bath

Lying in a mirror, half in and half out of light
deflected, critically obliged to meet a second
slightly off me, a prospect of Rimbaud, traced,
in a temporary point of view, I greet the flowers
sprung from grout and tile, glazed but intact,
hibiscus and cowslip twist on Orphic stems
winding up the spout below, a bent prick
tucked in tight jeans too long. Splash me
from a different angle. Obliquely, the sound moves
underwater, playing on more than a silhouette
and less than the real me submerged in a hum
out of pitch, untuned, but satisfying to the ear.
The mirror shows itself, shimmering in the pores,
but resists the naughty swerve of interpretation.

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