Wash me with your eyes closed.
Move down with the moistnesses,
the pop-button supple flesh,
this body, its leaks and creases,
striped and leather-bound,
damp tendrils caressing
a living benediction.
Lather where the hairs grow
and make me into Bambi.
Rude absolution and human-tuned
waterfalls. I am not a marble marvel.
Minutes make markers on my cheeks.
But there is time, there is time.
Finger where the architect slipped
and ponder what hiccups have come
to bring us under the water.
There is time, there is time.
Washed clean, smooth half-moons
of my fingernails –
the ringing of the sea.