meditation wash

In the hot, downward pour
of my private shower,
I reaquaint myself
with the notion of warmth.
I run my fingers through
the mop of my head
and peel away the balled
knots, which hang from
my skull like bats
in front of a hot moon.
That shower-head moon
casting shadow after shadow
until one colossal shadow
like a winter afternoon
falls like an amorous net,
catching my eyes and softly
closing them up, so that
I hear nothing but water
making rivers around my lips,
and deltas leading down my thighs,
and muddy basins between my toes.
I feel heavy like a dream
being lifted out of sleep, other-
wordly, alien to the shower
curtain sticking to my shoulder.
I feel the water passing, passing
over. It smells like sewage but
I hold my tongue. The shower
holds the rest of me in its
thousands of jetted arms.