In one drop of water you’ve discovered similar degrees
of wetness, space weaned with understood boundaries: 
Perhaps a part invective, the water like a perfect earth
squashed and cooling. The heat overwhelming into
an easy thing. You and the water cut from the same cloth.
The bubbles here levitate; the faucet goes on and off
like the realization that you are naked, angled knee deep
toward the falling, falling and empty. To you this is a place
to hurry, to ignore the indenture your body has withstood.
The apostasy that is labial, a blush wrapped in silk. The dirt
from it mixes in the water, turns the water to something wasted:
like the water you curl yourself into this attire, end and start
with the drain hole. Each part of you finding a place that,
in the moment, unfolds and is breakable:  the water entering
while not appearing to pry, an epitome suede and hidden, and
you, like a pearl, gleaming and opaque with doves.