Pool Fly
Feet in chlorinated droplets,
forehead bright as grassblades backlit
by sun, you stand still
on my knuckle.
I run my fingernail
beneath a wing stuck to itself.
I slide the other between
pinched fingers and
you let me.
Vibration. Soft and sharp. Movement
without takeoff. I lift you to my eyes
and (I swear) you face me,
leaning forward as
those back legs, quick and sure,
glide up and down—level your wings
in their veined translucence,
refract light.
Thank you. For the invitation to a long look
though all six legs
worked fine.