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Ode to a morning shower

Date Written: September 16, 2017

You are sneaky,

a surprise,

hiding in the pipes,



a pent-up,


of nocturnal


seeking release like

a leaking rainbow.


You travel

in night caravans

of bubbles

on the backpacks

of sleepy camels

and arrive


at my bathroom



you hide

in your delicate

corner of spring,


to surprise,


to burst forth

like a cloud

over the sand dune of dreams.


And I


I arrive

like a mirage,

bones, hands, feet,


from the sands

of a dry night sleep,

dragging and groping

in the dark.


When I

step behind

the curtains inside

your cubicle of rain

I step into myself

and away from the world.


I disappear

into your

steamy portal of

liquid invisibility

into a surround sound of rain

dropped and splayed

like a million

good mornings – all,

snapping and peeling

against my skin,

pelting like dull,

liquid thumbs,

exploding like rolling

streams, jolting

like body-coffee.


Controlled storm

of quiet thunder,

you are

so sparse

that I turn


turn again

to receive you,

and so vast

that I lose myself

in the turning.


I close

my eyes,


drawn to

the water wall of drums

that beat deep

within the forest

beneath the arc

of the metal

rainbow, and I

sip and sip

the purple monsoon

of your morning shower song.

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