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The Shower Curtain Swans The shower curtain swans that float in alternating diamond panes of vinyl lace above my tub take turns with reeds and lotus blooms, serenely. Not one swan presumes to scratch, flap, slash its beaked way out. They soak, content, inside their frames, each patient as a swan-shaped shrub. No, patienter than that, because they’re fabricated. Like the drains, pipes, pumps now laving my bare legs with fluoridated H2O. I lather, happy not to go somewhere that lacks the denouements of water treatment. Earth contains worms three feet long whose unseen eggs wash into you with river-splash: a dip, a stumbly fording, or a thirst so strong you’ll slurp up dregs. They grow to their full meter, drift, and exit through your nostril if you’re lucky. Else, they’ll gnaw and gnash original tracks out; they’ll bore— I’ve said enough. You get the picture. 20 HadawayRevisedPages 8/15/06 3:09 PM Page 20 What saves us from them? Chlorine. Cash. Municipalities. A thin membrane of tarmacs, autobahns, and fiber optics. Artifice in all its forms, economies and other opaque faiths. The ash cross fading off my intact skin in all this steam. The frozen swans. 21 HadawayRevisedPages 8/15/06 3:09 PM Page 21 ...

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