the plug hole of the bath

The plug hole of the bath
is clogged up with soap.

The bulbs of the lamps
in the basement are burnt.

Orange peels for ashtrays
glasses of water with ash

decanting, at the bottom,
in the basement where people
sit, listening to the piano.

Upstairs, the rough floor is
covered with paper, notes
attempts to draft a pattern

to days stuck at the tempo
of an oddly beautiful yet dull
auditive recollection.

At a certain time of night
I sit, on the edge of the bath

I can hear, faintly, the speakers
speaking as I wait,

My eyes are underlined
with dusky purple marks,

and the plug hole of the bath
is clogged up with soap.