From tiled sanctuary
My steam rises
Up, out from crunkling bubbles
Cloaking me
In a universe of soap, quantum soup
Malleable as the oboe
Upstairs.
There, the player turns
Their instrument round
Upon me, crooning
“Silken, silken night,
O silken, silken night,
Who are we? For I, am.”
And all my world is edge-lit.
Continue reading “O silken, silken night”