moon pools [12/30]

the season ebbs into the white stones
color grows into the dirt, sprouting from the walls
the pink echo of faces, the leg’s purples, catching ultraviolet

the sun creeps into the mind, chasing the frost from the breath
the mist from morning air, the scent of decay from the branches
it is lofting among the cirrus waves, glinting the blindness

it chases us into the chlorine soak, from the decks and the salts
the grease of the sand and the writhing grains on our backs
the cold presses in, the cell trappings of dusk and silence
but the heat is loud
the moon’s pools scream again
and we escape into their noise.