The Bath

So buoyant, the bath, the salts,
the uncreaked bones, the knob
and socket, like that blasé afternoon
with its shallow sun and lotions,
with its plinkos and tokens –
that cool and wayward drift
on a raft, chest to the sky,
when the chatter fell,
when the tide rolled in,
and heaved me up
on the sharp edge of the beach,
and left me there, thrown out,
reeling, as water
dragged the blood away.

Image: Conor Sexton on Unsplash

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