NEW! Poem by Kyle Booten

Kyle Booten


POOLSCAPE



You've heard about the order of the waves,



established many years ago by boys



and girls disguised as boys.  Wholly artless,



they plied the crests barehanded.



You've heard about their hands, but have not touched



or been touched, else you too would be clean



and constant, governed by the distant sun



or its viceroy umbrellas.  In their shade



you saw many people alive with sugar.



Every person is made of water; so



every person is, or could be, a radio,



a rudimentary song harvester



with no search-dial, bleating random tunes



or static.  I trust you've heard of static,



that place where songs surge and overlap.



Half-graveyard, half-battleground,



it grows more crowded every summer.



Songs have to go somewhere, after all.



They can't seek asylum in the future.



You've heard about the future, or even



leaned against it once, unawares,



mistaking it for a chain-link fence.