Lit in Progress

Dust drifts thick over the pane
pressing him into this cold white place
The gleaming door will close them in,
throwing their images at each other
like shrapnel,
watching as they scrub and scrub
until they smell of soap scum
on the sink they share
with their small clean selves
there inside a bathroom mirror
touching grey lines
with his fingers, her bottled face
cracking like glass . creasing like linen
the one he owns, the one with dark hair

February 8th, 2006