Nothing Dry

a swimming pool with stars mixed in its grout.
we, the Three, stick to the pool’s great misshapen edge.
trying not to breathe, trying not to move, above all, to not be seen.
we speak our own language of giddy excitement, bursting from our moment of trespassing.
2 small flashlights seem like the strokes of lightsabers, waiting to cut through our sweet, secret charade.

Stop.
Go,

now the Three weave along the black shore,
happy to be free but stimulated and ready for our next obstacle.
live tortoises mix with those of stone in the moonshadows.

Stop.
Go,

back in My place.
billowing sheer white curtains fill with thick sea air and part to reveal a cloud burst.
all the water in the world storming over This ocean.
great cracks of lightning; these must be the roots of the sky.
the Three meet outside, no words,
nothing dry.