| In the Bath Dropped fluttered floated from me— page one of the book (nothing that had not already been carved and beaten, but I panicked anyway). Watched it alight on the rippling surface and soak immediately. Pushed sunglasses up— panicked— and stopped writing. Looked for a place (frantic, now) to dry the one page, the piece, the fir bolg, when my fingers opened and floated the page to the water again. Now it drips, hung like a facecloth over the spout. Every 2.36 minutes, the water collects at the corners and drips below to my toes tangled in the chain of the drain plug, toes trying to yank the drainplug out of place because they want me to get sucked down. I remember to reach back and take my slippery pages (all my slippery pages) with me to Oblivion, Shang-tu, San Francisco. |
 |