By the closed pool in Palm Springs

Sneaking, as three women in suits can sneak, to the poolside,

artificial green-blue light bold in the desert dark. The hotel

at this hour seems like a distant island, or a cruise ship with lit windows.

No Trespassing. We cast our shoes off in reply,

without shoes, all officialness relinquished.

Feeling the cold water up to our ankles we watch stars,

pass plastic cups of warm white wine like students of literature at a house party.

Who we were, not who we are.

Inside the pool what could lurk in aqualight to pull us by our heels

into the water, to skin us or drag us into a new dimension?

We don’t say if we are afraid of anything beyond the sweeping path

of a torch, that suggests security has found us.

So blue, so black, our feet like blind fish.

Keep the keycard in your wallet long beyond checkout.

Was the pool closed sir, we didn’t know.