Hydromage

The girl you liked - she's finishing
work about now, isn't she? Walking past
the Plantation gardens, the cathedral, listening

for the starlings in the high twists of mast
The sun is dripping butter on the treetops
The Norfolk flint looks mad in the shadowblast

She won't get drunk tonight. She stops
altogether, when too many secrets bind
her hand to the stone, and fire licks the ropes,

so she imagines you, by the bathroom blind
The naked collector of funeral ashes
Downstairs, someone washes their dirty hand

This affects the shower. The neck of water thrashes
against your back, a loose, kissing whip
worshipping your pink heat rashes

She suspects you desire control, to slip
a ring on, or a bangle, and thereby command
the chain of water, get a muzzle-tight grip,

then dash it on your anklebone, drown it in sand,
weave it, knot it and hurl it at your enemies,
hang it out as a garland of frost, tie it to your hand

She leaves you dreaming of this God disease
in her own fantasy, which is, I'm sure, unplanned
At home, she takes her clothes off in tiny pieces
and dances at her own showers' hot demand