Hard Water

 

 

In the new town, the water tastes different. Even

The rain.

 

The shower leaks, drumming impatiently

Its fingers on the tiles,

 

Leaving a copper tang in the air, a freshly

Dug grave smell,

 

Clean as a slab. Toweling down, the body still

Slick from the soap

 

That just won’t lather, a trickle crawls into

A parted sigh on the lips.

 

Its bead melts there. Curious, how its potent

Nothingness

 

Tastes of distance, limestone, whiteness,

And the rain.

 

 

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