A good scrubbing was in order—
or, so they told me
when I sat cross legged
to meditate.
I tried to explain
my shell theory—
but they had left
before I had begun.

All’s the more,
I said to myself,
as a bath was prepared
by a sandpaper soul.

I dipped,
per instructed
and I emerged
less.
But clean.


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my mine: 

 

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