Drained

Crumpled tissues, a bar of
soap, and water tilted casually

over the shower drain, which breathes
occasionally through the hair

that coats its throat like brunette
gills. After a ten minute shower,

it takes an hour for the water
to exit through the inscrutable hole,

finally purified, while the drain suffers complaints
that taste like water, ankle deep --

I opened my mouth to you, and swallowed
Drano like watery wine, and I let

you put your fingers into my perfectly
circular hole and withdraw hairs

slimy as frogs, shivering together in
Gregorian unison. So what if I'm tired of

breathing through murkiness, the
waterlogged fog required for our communion --

your thoughts sound like harpsichord
notes, thin and irritable as we

silt in quiet contemplation.
This is beyond understanding for both

human and drain - we can do nothing
but wait to steal a collective breath.