Things are where we wanted them to be. These cutouts—blue—on the city, spread Like holes in the folds of a map: I walk Into them, little frames of a sequence In which I am a person touring swimming Pools. Perhaps I feel something pass. Perhaps I’ve begun to gather something That seems elusive only because I can’t Turn away. At the base of this pool, empty But for a pile of leaves and Robert Moses Sliding out from under my reach—as I fall— Slipping pool lights into my eyes: like crystals, They color inside themselves, a blue which Clears the second the light leaves them.