Brent C. Pace
It is sweat-steam in where we stand
On bare tile. Indoor pelicans,
This indiscreet nudity is almost flight.
Our skin is pink, ruddied from the run
And rubbing. We bend to find toes
Like faces of old girls, visitors,
Spread to give balance
On the cold squares. Youth has
Been strained out of these calves,
Thighs remembered in monotone
Under the liquid beating of long showers
That hit above the nape. We are
Not transparent in our wetness. We find
No hurry in the drying. Our rooms in
Later hours’ sunlight will be the color of
Tanned skin through the yellowed
Muslin curtains, and night so close.
