The soul was taken
by surprise, plunging
into that glassed-
in pool in February,
​dysthymic, hyperthymic,
sex-crazed, hypomanic,
​money-throwing,
neurasthenic
​soul
rattling in its
cage, in its
blankets and heaters
and down
quilts, wrapped in
​layers of flannel
and wool, wearing socks,
​a fleece hat.
It plunged into
​the pool
under the cold dripping
​roof, the mauve
sky walling it in,
​making it echo,
hit its edge
​against the air’s
steel wool, mohair.
​Like the last stage,
batting around
​in this daytime
twilight,
​ricocheting off
the glass wall.
​​I can find
​it in a pan
of water. It drips
​from the roof
as in a hot house,
​the world
of exotic flowers
​steaming,
their grave, erotic
​faces frozen
open. … Bird striking
​a glass enclosure,
wall of slate
​falling back down.
  ​​​        First
you take the walkway
​from the other building,
flaps of plastic on
​either side,
freezing concrete
​on your bare feet,
the stiff glass door. In
​the cold, soft
air, it doesn’t
​want to get
its feet wet, its
​body either, without
its glasses, the world
​is smeared
with Vaseline, the
​air is
gray, the water
​blue-gray,
the children hardly
​visible,
have to hold the little one
​tight,
up and down the pool,
​wiggle
wiggle the legs,
​it’s cold,
the black cloth of your
​swimsuit getting wetter
and wetter, taking
​on water.
This is the soul’s
​element;
this is what
​you carry with you.

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