How the sky seems to falter,
revealing a slight delay,
as if inadequately rehearsed,
as if the sun’s plans had not yet reached it.
The pool of water stills and holds an accurate image,
golden plate ripened with pitmarks of orange,
furred with auric fringe.
The ending hour is girdled with
ceremonial touches, solicitous
as a prison warden.
The water cups the light
but can’t help but spill,
neither waterfall nor dribble,
and just possibly, no loss at all.
The sun is taking its final chorus,
clustering notes into low runs,
punctuating a random high and sheening chord,
the sky floating off into its own key,
deepening its spread from the one dark horizon.
The girl stretched out beside the pool sits up on cue,
tugging her dress loose so as to expose her throat,
shoulders, and breasts to the fade of the muttering sun.