By the Pool
A jaundiced block of ivory, a box made of sallow misty ivory, butted sheets so thin that the bobbing nebulous form in blackness is of wax paper, sheets puckering, billowing and evaporating, the beam of moon lacing light across the deck, through a rippling jar of piss and scribing a logarithmic net contorting and contouring the swells of my back and ass, drawing my body as the ground, putting me in that window, behind real lace hooked and woven curtains, blankets and skins, the skin of water, the lace of reflected light, the curtain of high corner weeds, the person that is a fixture of night, not an occupant or dweller, but a surface.
