Under the umbrella by the pool are two quilted

chaise lounges,

like the rollers in factories used 

to move small items to the next station.

If you run your hand over them

you will feel symmetry of each roll

until you don’t.

Their slope is inviting as one

can see it’s the shape of a body

unconscious

waiting to be lifted upward by a parent

or a lover.

The sun warms the chaises between 

eleven and two thirty.

They are always perfectly empty,

undulating and perfectly positioned

for the body that never comes.

The woman swims

moving her legs and arms in

time with her urgent need. 

She watches the two chaise lounges

admires them, their perfect curves,

their arc, a painter’s swish, a Japanese 

letter, an apostrophe to the

natural world.