He rubs his thumb against two other ones,
index and next, fingertip circles slow
until it flows — honeysuckle scent from
some dripping aperture, brass faucet. Knows
by rote the bubble height you like — that steam
makes nightmares dreams, cleans freshly shrunken dolls.
How intimate submerging naked seems,
even in microscopic extremes. Small
enough to float atop his palm, you’re calm
but wet. Forgetting he’s the reason you
are here, so nearly disappeared, embalmed,
enchanted water fingertips drew
from sorcery, dew yet something small survives.
Fingers make you remember you’re alive.