Anyways, he raised his gaze
to the premises
and the villas and supine gardens looked back vacantly.
Let something happen in us, they seemed to say,
that’s what we’re here for.
Back at the pump house
where pump and filter discreetly minister
to the hygiene of the users of the pool,
the pool boy checked the gauges
and made sure all was purring properly
and left and locked his little concrete chapel
with wooden louvered door.
There was no one at the poolside,
no one in the pool.
He stood and communed with the jewel of his system,
checked the trees for the tiniest breeze
addressing it from the tip of the springboard,
pure volume of something like truth
that shimmers like quartz
with charge applied.
You’re not like them, the pool boy thought.
That’s not what you’re here for.
To dive in so gracefully
that the surface would yield
like a window to a spoke of light,
without a splash or rush of noise,
and the cube of water keep perfect composure
as he haunted its depth with his flesh –
that would be dying, that would be living,
that would be what I’m here for.