Water

A sink is filled with water and soap,
dishes pass through: a plate, a white
saucer, a coffee mug, a spoon.
The water is drained. It's done its work.
In the wave and rivulet, the water.
In the bath and stream, the water.
In the bodies that pass through us
and among us the same water.
On the maize and brook trout, the gutters
and strangers kissing, the water.
Viaduct and peninsula, parapet
and guillotine, wise and young,
eidos and material, the water.
On the tongue of a man as snow.
From the kiss to despair, fluidity
everywhere, swirl of the God hole
swimming under our wrists.
Even lampblack knows this.
We fall in, and we change forever:
sheets, a Platonic knowledge of the Trinity,
the sounds we make with one
lover and not with another.