​67. In Which to Sink

You keep throwing

Out all those babies

With the bath water

Until the tub is a mild

Torrent of leftover

Soap, the ghost

Of clean skin.

We were only made

To win if we really

Understand the nuance

of Truth In Love,

Not a dissected mess

Of one or the other.

And I watch you now,

Your hand turning

The faucet’s cold

Handle, playing

With the way the water

Feels until there’s enough

In which to sink.