Airs that stay attached to these

Floating strands of body hairs

    In our bath today, even when

    We try to drown them,

Attach themselves again, 

Like gelatin, to the batch,

    Invisible to the eye, but

    Appearing in the scribble

On the bathtub bottom,

Its shadow's sole phenomenon,

    That is, absent in reality

    But present in the apparatus

Created by the sun outside,

A carbon copy mated

    By an accident of light

    Or some matching ion

That shapes, from dimples,

Tiny shades of clinging fat,

    Like magnetic jewels

    Or underwater mica,

Only thriving here, that, in the open,

Disappear, shy and lonely  

    Wings of water which,

    Just when xeroxed, turn to rings,

Coats of hidden strings

On which our body also floats.