rings
Anne Pepper

in a bathtub, come
up for air- gray, scummy,
resourceful as brine

and you sit yours
on its center plumb, a
silver aside to washbasin
as you lather down.

it is tucked into your
thumb when it walks,
connecting fourth finger

to thumb, a lifecycle
completed. nighttimes,
your sleep forms an

o as you drizzle sound
between tobaccoed
whiskers, past your fu

manchu. your thick toes
curl themselves
demi- circular into mine.

i envy your long lashes'
twitch.

© Anne Pepper