Tepid Trepidation

A dish dropped through the nightly tangle of bubbles,
porcelain sheen disappearing, green gone in a watery glaze
from textureless fingers
spirals no deeper down than a child's reach,
pulling plates into position,
stacking them neatly,
each pressing the others down
in a slow undertow most expected,
straight rows rounded and edged with gold.

Yet, steps from the sink
water burned the soft curve of your shoulder
boiling its angry spill,
a free acid angled by heat,
a well-placed blade of mist,
a still wave.

So let them soak free of their traces,
serving only themselves, a firm curving salute
from wet depths, weary of wrestling
with no breath to hold.