the pulchritudinous turpitude of medusa in the tub

i. to peek upon the washing is its own secret rite

the first bath of an oddly promising spring
easily births its own peppery cascading joy-
what might have speckled in the continuing winter
rushes into the copper stream and, lonely, drifts away:

the pesky mites that might have ravaged bloody roses
clamor onto crafty rafts of golden straw and, clutching, float away-
they will not burrow in the clay-skinned perfection of ageless models,
they only want to, quietly, stroke themselves and drift away.

ii. windows are made of abysmally slow liquid

reflections of a dead branch grasping,
held by green hands that will not let it drop:

these trees inside the water
that hints of other currents.

in the dry season the rooks come out to play-
it is not the dry season now:
the release of pent-up yellow on the weedy hill
has its inner sense of dignity.

the shadowy plumb of straightened lines,
in your sinking house of rotted soffits.

skinned knees on cracked concrete are a stark reward.

iii. it's hard to deny the cyclical

there is no mortared vault of berries yet,
inscribed in autumn with beaded numerology
or the angled facts of a hooded ghost:
the jeweled sconce of red and blue and green
plastered in a room that has drifted earthward.

through the years no angle stays true:
the pedestal font begs for the dirt of your ablutions
and the adulation only, if at all, reflects back at you.

there may be a green salad at the picnic next door.