Wait. What are these words
etched so blatantly in this fog-ged mirror
beside the shower
curtain of immodesty;
before me yet beyond my senses,
in ears endampened, engrossed, entombed-
like my murmuring heart?
Skin awash, adazzle;
insides asleep, awaiting…
There, there I see on glass, smeared,
perhaps by finger, nose, or shoulder –
condensation wiped from misty mirrors
word for word what I most misunderstand
and least fathom.
Traces left, glances of a face
revealed yet indeterminable; known, un-strange;
but surprising now, and terrible
soft and fearsome, lithe but
too big to hide even
in the darkest corners of my indirection.
Droplets dive to swim and speak
the intangible peace of this lilting voice.
Like an eyeball widget
refusing to stand still, darting to and fro,
never seen straight on,
just out of focus,
you write this tale, shrouded
in the vagueness of a loving stare,
adroit and sharp, a repeated repetition,
repeating yet again the same words:
“I have made you clean.”
Still, I know this face.
It is yours, subtle One.
It is mine.
It is ours.