Sightline

Water from the taps tastes like chlorine.
There is a fine sifting of green and yellow
on patio chairs, on every car down the block.
Filmy on the surface of swimming pools.
I never learned to swim though I have
dreams of slicing through clear water:
my arms a slow windmill pulling me
closer to the edge. I keep the fine
white tufts of Queen Anne’s Lace
in my sights. They bob in sympathy
with my efforts. Only a wading bird
keeps perfectly still, not judging.

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