Things are where we wanted them to be.
These cutouts—blue—on the city, spread
Like holes in the folds of a map: I walk
Into them, little frames of a sequence
In which I am a person touring swimming
Pools. Perhaps I feel something pass.
Perhaps I’ve begun to gather something
That seems elusive only because I can’t
Turn away. At the base of this pool, empty
But for a pile of leaves and Robert Moses
Sliding out from under my reach—as I fall—
Slipping pool lights into my eyes: like crystals,
They color inside themselves, a blue which
Clears the second the light leaves them.