Remind me to tell you about the sculpted figures
an eye can devour, the imperfect laws of gravity
and the imperfect ceiling, the hot stone floors.
Someone’s pressing against me in the steam, again.
I want to make sure it’s you who’s ravishing
in the lead-white pools, the salty declivities.
I expect we’ll both harden like old bread. I expect
we’ll have seen each hoodlum and attendant
to the point we’ll naturally shrink away. We will
have had so many good figs and the green grapes.
So much soap, we’ll have stung our tender openings.
Bearing against one another, in the opaque spray.