A twist of fabric becomes its own whip
the broad back of the ghat+ an attack on
grease
soap suds form a bubble between the hits
a see through glob, sea-blue on the
breeze
not that the dhobin* has time to notice
a refracted sun of corkscrewed
perspective.
I am entranced and terrified by turns;
she knows to ignore paralysing angst.
Each lens refracts its individual sun
all fabrics have their bricks and
riverbanks;
whatever the tint and tilt of the lens
the truth lies always beyond the
refractions.
+ Paved riverbank
* Washerwoman
