Tom Thompson

Your Own Finite Toes above a Small Tin Bath

The building’s sleek airs hiss in the pipes, compressed
slow as rose, the rose slows to blue
spritzings of regret and
who-cares-for-it-anyway—out of the single speckled valve
a dual-chambered action—
atomized to a fog of longing. Gentlemen,
the slung spoor works for you, so use it. Never does quite
condense into a body though does it, autumn’s late gold
atmosphere. It grinds,
wet with a mash of leaf particles, cast-off
forms, pulverized cornerstones, bones,
disjecta that cloak your membranes
like baby powder. Looks soft, anyway.
And makes for a uniform belief
you’re likely to welcome over the two-fold breath,
the rose the blue the bubble and toil
of your daily lungs.



“Your Own Finite Toes above a Small Tin Bath” is from The Pitch (Alice James Books, 2006).