Dry Run

We pass the boards through first,
then pull ourselves over the fence.
The deep end smells of wet leaves.
No one has taken away the ladder.

Down its rungs we go,
past the depth in blue figures,
our shoes arriving where our heads
would once have been.

The first run hardly leaves the bottom:
grit under the wheels, a seam
that kicks the board sideways.
We sweep it with our sleeves.

Then the slope begins to lift us,
to send us back a little faster
than we meant. You come up laughing,
all elbows, and the board goes on
without you, clattering up the curve.

You sit on the pool's edge, picking a stone
out of your palm. I wait.
You rub the place against your jeans
and point your chin towards my board.

The rim comes level with my eyes,
then drops,
and there is sky behind you.