Stopcock

Of course in the dream the stopcock’s jammed with rust:
nothing turns back the restless onwards push
of household pressure doing as it must
from warning dribble through jesting spray to gush;

the pipework weakened, creaking at every join
and spoilable things nearby, and ruin lapping
about one’s ankles; insufficient coin
for plumber’s call-out, and your useless flapping

hardly helping much; no tools to hand
except the kind that somehow make things worse;
the ceiling bulging now, a reprimand
from Triton for the seemingly perverse

desire to live indoors and drily yet
with reservoirs of force within our clutch:
self-filling basins, fountains that gamely wet
the lips or eyelids at the smallest touch.