It feels as if the Gem is moving
Her free will journey
Inhaling Time

While we coccoon
Waiting
Wingless
Inside
~
Suds from lots of bubble pipes
Rain generously
On her screens

Thankfully
The wipers are carefully tubed
In fine sheaths of white plastic

Suds
Fanning
A foamy breeze
Bathe the Gem
In magic waves
Of milk

And then
The deep whirring roar
As rolling
Parralel
Brushes
Softly savage
Softly ravage
Her body and soul

No respectable
Newly tuned child
Is worth a new sunrise
Without
A thorough
Deep
Wash

The brushes return
And return
And return
Mowing down
All stray suds
With a friendly burst
Of clean ocean

And then
The slow glaze
Of drying heat
Like ebbing and flowing tides
Of baby comfort

For just a moment
There is
A sigh
As the brushes
Slowly fold

And the bathing heat
Hangs heavy
In humid
Sensual
Bliss

The screen tells a new story now
A crystal, two-way mirror
Believing
The air
Is clear
Etched in fresh shapes
And pulsing colours

But Time is calling

A red
Lonely light
To the side
Becomes green

Exhaling Time

Turn
The Gem

Over...