June

Two of my neighbors have swimming
pools;
in June,
one is empty,
one full.

One is a spider house--
gossamer silent,
happyless,
unwet socket--
a felled plastic welkin
for hiding three daughters from
the sad-drowning homeowner.
He has five hollows:
one in his knee from the war,
two in his cheeks where there used to be
scarlett,
one in his liver from drinking, and
one in his idle-bought pool so his children can
sleep somewhere else when his
bad days are
winning.

Then the full one's
a hum-shining mirror for summer--
peopleful,
merry, silk-frilled
brine puddle--
holder of a bouyant, five-son
family:
gemstone mother,
briefcase father,
Jameson,
Jacob,
Jared,
John, and
Jeremy
floating always faceup under
ribbons of sunblock.

But what I hear here--
in between--
in this warm dozenth of year--
is not the seven chlorinated
sun-snickers.
Three young pairs of midnight tears
pearling dew on spider webs
in the dry pretendings of kept face is  
much
louder.