100 of 100
Washing up
This is it, all over but the washing up,
and my cloth leaves equidistant soap bubbles across the galactic blue plate.
Each breath caught in a cage a moment wide.
I have loved like bubbles,
dipping my rough hands into the soap to capture that one priceless shimmer
before it drops to the floor, to the grass, before it shudders away at the change of temperature between light and dark.
I have piled up bubbles in a bath, each new mound a brief and brutal monument to the futility
of ever having enough.
Here I am, clean plate, clean hands, sitting in cooling water.
Here I am, bending to see bubble's blood and butterfly dust.
This is it, all over but the washing up,
and my cloth leaves equidistant soap bubbles across the galactic blue plate.
Each breath caught in a cage a moment wide.
I have loved like bubbles,
dipping my rough hands into the soap to capture that one priceless shimmer
before it drops to the floor, to the grass, before it shudders away at the change of temperature between light and dark.
I have piled up bubbles in a bath, each new mound a brief and brutal monument to the futility
of ever having enough.
Here I am, clean plate, clean hands, sitting in cooling water.
Here I am, bending to see bubble's blood and butterfly dust.