In the bathhouse 10.20pm

It is late and I shouldn’t be here
But the dirt of days has ingrained my skin
Full of stories. I will wash them away
To settle in the silt of centuries.
Each layer will shed light
On the substrate of the past.
Thumb print flecks, depositing a record
Of all the washing that has gone before.

Tired men, bone ached with work,
Sigh in the balm of warm water
Their parchment hides telling tales of tanning
The tide of calm softening their mood before sleep.

The bath house is silent with fatigue
And I am dreaming of the sky.