glass shower door

a face
in a mirror
is a naked stranger
washing hair

slowly, slowly,
a mist creeps higher over
a glass door
it swallows up naked legs,
soapy strands,

clouds over blue eyes
like an evening storm gathering all summer day
clouds over
skin almost remembering how to be skin

[was it me? were we ever even there?]

stranger gone,
water washes soap
into a drain



Filed under conceptual, growing older, poem, poetry

2 responses to “glass shower door

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