I hear you clapping times 
in the shower, the clap, clapclap, 
clap—quarter notes, eights, 
sixteenths. I imagine the Dove, 
the Prell, the soft green sponge 
beside the curtain, the cupboard 
full of towels. And the wall—
your palms against it, tapping, 
slapping the smooth, wet white. 
Tap. Taptap. The door is ajar. 
I wonder at your fingers 
and palms, flat and round, wet 
and quick. Hot water, hot steam. 
The latch bolt, the strike plate 
lip, tarnished—all this moisture 
in all this cold, each long 
winter—heat and moisture, 
aching and bright. I want to 
open the door, step inside, pull 
the curtain, watch you, the heat 
of you, your rhythms tapping, 
eyes closed. Clapclap, clap. 
Timing, you’d say, a trumpet motet, 
your claps like tongue tips 
against the mouthpiece brass. 
I feel those tongues, those lips, 
feel them against my own. Feel 
yours. A week ago, after a bath, 
you traced figures on the mirror 
glaze, little symbols for your 
times, numbers sliding down 
the glass as the room went back 
to cold. I wiped it with a towel, 
but left your notes, and they 
dried there—the faintest 
imprints of your fingertip. 
You say it will change, it always 
does—two to four to eight, 
larger, smaller, like those beats 
of river ice outside, the silent 
snaps of wings as sparrows fly 
from hedge to hedge above the snow.