*Not really finished, but then none of these sCRAPs ever are. However, (potentially the) opening poem from a series I hope to work on about the body, so any feedback would be much appreciated.
The Water’s Reflection
From the showerhead water
rips and screams into life
howls and wails like a newborn
or an old man barking
at the dawn that rises and refuses
to give him even the briefest glance.
And it spreads its arms and fingers
and it unpeels the lids of its eyes
and it is morning here
or it is evening here
or does it even matter?
And it laminates the body of work
each letter paragraph chapter
every footnote and annotation
and the water rejoices from the showerhead.
Until the body of work closes
the sliding door behind itself
and the possessed rapture
becomes the silent drip of faith.