That first smack of water
from the tap against the tile
is where it all ends as day begins.
Liquid visions of night-drugged dreams
roll down the shower glass and slide
into the gulf of morning.
I imagine diligent facts, random genius,
clever retorts swelling together
in some ethereal ocean, memories reaching skyward
as tiny peaks on its surface.
Standing naked halfway between sleep
and reason, senses freed of sense,
my toes touch the tips of imagination.
How I long to grip sleep's splintery oars
where, settled in my little blue rudderless boat,
I set sail to ride the tides of my dreams.
Lori Boulard
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/an-argument-for-baths/
