Slag

Jesus Rodriguez

Moving grace, a tearing of white, shade,
she reaches for her sunglasses, everything
is displaced and that hard plastic lick, still
wet, clings to her arm.

A stone is thrown across a pool, glistens,
is gone, and still, there you are looking for her.
Quickly a click, shift of day into descending
mist, and the reflection of water on her glasses.