My hands are slippery and my hair is wet;

I step out of the shower, and the word that comes to

mind

is dim.

The floor, speckled.

The mirror, smeared.

The lights:

Dim.

There is quiet static in the air

and a slight scent

of nature, dirt, or semen -

one cannot be sure.

But to be sure it is merely myself

and my permutated souls.

As plural is an act of power,

Yea, righteously I pluck my words from the silence

of this very evening's

sensual

throb.