I rinse my hand briefly under the tap – lifting the toilet lid gave me a slight sense of having condensation on my fingertips – and the water is kept running to mask the sounds of my bowel movement. After using the rinsed hand to wipe myself, the tissue paper adheres to my damp fingers, preventing me from disposing of it; shaking it makes it hang down momentarily, like a tired festoon, which then falls onto the floor beside the toilet bowl.

Gloating at stale readdressers
Of love, I lengthen, in lieu
Of hypothetic successors
Hazarding poems for you,
Shadows beneath my beetling verse.
Groat, with likeness of the swain –
Let it be muled with the obverse
Die of a coin from my reign.