the harsh whisper of the sliding glass door and the hushed murmur behind hands to her girlfriend's ear, sunlight in sheets like birthday candles, the taste of chlorine behind everything and ease with which she smiles, pause once and admire all the girls and the way they wear their cocaine sunglasses, poised around the edge like angels, french-tip manicures breaking the surface like calendar pages, saturday afternoon reflects in the ripples, dusk slumbers in the shadows cast about the patio but so far away as to be a mirage, and it doesn't matter that house is broken down or that grass is dying from the heat of june, or that the planes fly too low in their traffic patterns, or that hearts never break or that everything turns to ashes eventually, if only she would strip down next to her skin and jump in the pool...
POOLPARTYPOOLPARTYPOOLPARTY
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