Detritus
The pool had been left alone for weeks
left to lay beneath the tree
gathering bramble, pollen,
wayward seeds and other things
of spring, things that sink beneath
the water sheath and disappear.
You were at the bottom when I came
to net the detritus.
No rigor mortis in the blanch
of your skin; the floral print
of your two-piece right at home.
There was nothing I could say
that you would hear; nothing you
could say that wouldn’t send
a blush of bubbles to the air.