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She remembers the night they met at the ball.
He asked her to dance by the Gatsbian pool.
She remembers the sight of women who tear
their clothes off to dive in, and she leaves
the thought of him for one of purifying water,
as she rips off her string of gaudy beads.

Sweat collects on his brow in angry beads
as he strikes at a painted, glossy ball.
His brains are a sack of amniotic water
secreting through his glands into a pool
and he drowns in his mind, which leaves
room only for a single, lonely tear.

Her heaving womb appears to tear
through her crop shirt- her blood in beads
gushes and drops like leaves-
a release of tension- her stress ball
drops- bounces- through a game- of pool ?
She fears- her bloom will die without water.

His turn is over, and he takes a swig of water.
The next player strikes, and the fibers of the cue tear
the threads of the felt, aqua pool
table. The liberated lint forms beads
on the moving stick that strikes the cue ball.
His heart leaps and he leaves.

The plants in her garden have leaves
that wither when she forgets to water
the earth and give each one a ball
of fertilizer, and now she even forgets to tear
out weeds that creep into beds and between beads
in the ejaculating fountain of her avian pool.

He remembers diving into her bottomless pool
on the blanket of her lawn abreast feathery leaves.
His maddened sweat mirrors her beads,
broken, like her emergent water
that announced the internal tear
making way for the ten-pound, screaming ball.

Their voices patter like beads of rain landing on a pool.
They can again have a ball together, even if it leaves
the white water of her breasts in one, joint tear.

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