The water
I bathe.
The water holds me like my mother can’t.
Too busy answering demands and ducking shouts.
It stays,
and cradles me like my mother can’t,
laps forward, foams, taunts.
Shall I
sink a little lower now.
Go under and be fully loved?
The scum
wanders meaninglessly over
and I smack a cloud into the air.
It rests above the taps, 30cm or so,
a little cloud. Oh fucking joy, my cloud, it’s hope again.
Dwell Time 