The fifteenth poem from my poetry collection Conception.

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Bathtime

I tip
water
from a beaker
into your bath.
A tiny hand shoots out to grasp it.
Fingers curl
but skin closes on skin
as liquid
crystal
escapes
down your arm.
You try again to catch
the elusive glistening,
without success.
And
again
and
again...
But a baby can be excused
for not learning
that some things cannot be captured.