There is, in the bath, not time, but moments That stretch out with transparent reflections, So days echo through splashes and silence. Dreams, memories and conversations Stream, imaginarily from the tap; The gushing senses rushing into descent To dive downwards, down from the gaping gap. There is, in the bath, not time, but moments. Fears festering in depths and splashes heard In this wet pit where memory filthies Words with worries and shapeless world with words. Then stand, streaming steam and vapour leaving, Those thoughts forgotten beyond believing.