Bathroom

Run a knuckle
along the marble's
mirror polish.
It gleams like living teeth.

Crushed between forefinger and thumb
a lavender bloom
recalls that sinister
linen cabinet made of oak.

They fairly boomed in your skull then:
enameled voices once spoke
smooth, cruel phrases
later interpreted

As violent terms
of love.  Repeat.  Give
the hissing tap
a chance to heat up.

Steam and an act
of ablution you knew as an infant.
A childhood teeming
with naked faces.

Anchor your forehead,
rest it on cold
porcelain until
the universe folds, after which:

Condensation.  Fogged
reflection.  Two vague
holes for eyes, an empty shadow for a mouth:
Everyman alone reviews himself.