All summer long,
the pool was closed,
and I swam
continents,
asleep.
Glimpses of aqua
through a fence.
A neighbor’s
swimsuit.
Mouthwash blue.
The thing with dream-pools is
you never get to swim.
The thing with dream-pools is
they all mean something else.
When summer ended, the need passed
like an old pet, drifting
somewhere, like the wildfire smoke, or souls.
I thought of towels I’d sewed my name on,
how they one time seemed important.
In a dream-pool, I am floating,
silent blue in sheets around me.
In a dream-pool I am safe,
cleansed of whatever
came in with me,
my skin tight.