So I am packing up to leave Bath...

and here's an apt poem commemorating a year in my precious tiny luminous slice of Georgian architecture. And all the baths I've had here.
Mainly because the shower doesn't work.
Farewell big windows!
Farewell 2am shouty drunkards!
Farewell fucking seagulls!

I will miss you.


Winter Trilogy by Sudesh Mishra

the lion-footed bathtub
is a beast
with the cloudy head
of a human being
-a sphinx, no less,
with a soul of clear water
or what passes for clear water.
thus when the divine portion
rejects the torso,
despite its sublime brutishness,
as the woman,
(we behold her now)
haunted by towels,
desquamates,
stepping out of her improbable loins,
into another,
more exalted afterlife,
the soul
(more water than soul)
exulting in baser things,
retreats further
into what's primal, mud-sullied,
and unfinished.