To PRC
I'm washing clothes in the washing machine
entombed in the cool basement, where
bedrock protrudes through the cement,
and where frost covers the walls near
the windows in the deep winter. I'm
washing clothes, now that electricity
is cheap and warm sunshine is free,
yet you protrude into everything I do,
and the very word 'washing' brings up
images of washing you in the outdoor
sauna, how I would spread soap with
sponge across your every soft curve,
wash it away with warm water heated
in the rusting basin, wash your soft
yet firm thights, those buttocks that
always got my attention, your breasts,
your arms and your shins, all the things
of flesh that are you, and would reach
towards that enigma entombed in
the joined flesh, that aloof, brittle,
dreaming and hopeful and betrayed
you, I the frost that came through
the defenceless openings into
your suffering soul.
11.06.2023
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