Dance barefoot on the ice.
Feel the ice.
Slip.

Roll in the snow and wash it all off.
Wash it all off.
Forget.

On Cleanliness

I usually shower.
For me, taking a bath is an act of self-indulgence. Of extravagance.
I bathe only when I feel really, really dirty.
I want to see the water cloud with my filth.
I want to feel it flow over every inch of me.

I don't want to turn the water off.
It's not that I want it to keep running and running and growing deeper and hotter and higher.
It isn't, really.
It's that I want it to be loud.
I want its rushing torrents to drown out the silence.
Oh, intolerable silence!
When I'm in the mood for bathing, silence reminds me why.

I put my head under the water,
see how long I can hold my breath.
Warm embrace of the water and beautiful black,
then white and then air.
It reminds me how enjoyable breathing is, after all.

I want to get out as soon as possible,
to watch every last drop spiral down,
dark into the drain.
I dry off:
two towels, sometimes more.
And a blow-dryer for my hair.
I don't want any of my damp past clinging to me.