Turkish Bath in Winter
When you
were a young and glorious
archangel,
I happened
across a photo exhibit
including among other things,
a time elapsed series of
Marie
bare and gestating
the boy who
in our bottled expectations
would grow to dissolve.
On an opposite wall
in grey and white
I recognized
by length of leg
breadth of shoulder
softness of belly
what you would be now,
among
towel draped, or not
steam obscured
drooping man bodies
easing
into
still water
The spectre
breathes fire
this winter
from the shrouded
faces
and folded shoulders
of old men
who consider, then test
each icy step;
who plant
the melt of memory
on the back
of my throat
like intoxicating
bitters.