Salts
by gregbrown
From the white porcerlain, a copper sink
this is the landscape of extremities
where the scented salts escape the grasp
pressed in the lines of fingers.
Curl your toes in the suds
hands that scrub, to red
waiting tomorrow,
and tomorrow, and tomorrow,
on the reflection of bubbles
to circle the drain.
Advertisement
Like this:
One blogger likes this post.
Salt has been tickling my poetic inspiration lately too, but I haven’t found a good use for it yet. Maybe I should soak in it! :)
not sure if these are the sorts of salts you want to be bathing in.
You’ve got something there.
M
__________
Marie Marshall
writer/poet/editor/blogger
Scotland
http://mairibheag.com
http://kvennarad.wordpress.com