Ass-Backward into Forward

Each moment hides a David Hockney
swimming pool – it would be foolish not
to dive: contrive a personal geometry
throughout the shifting sunlit outlines
of its dapplings in turquoise, listening
to rippling whisperings of something you

will want to memorize, repeat: a mantra
which invokes and greets unconscious
aptitudes you hadn't known you'd had.
You're not exactly glad: and not entirely
untouched by rue. The question’s not
to be or not to be, but what to do. Today’s

a glare of New York late November
sun – too oddly blaringly inconstant and
incomprehensible to count. You wonder
if perhaps the sole solution is to sleep,
dismount – but no, the moment splashes
up and changes the amorphous to the aqua:

Hockney’s invitation – dive ass-backward
into forward – sends each curled November
member of you softly reeling – hurled,
unfurled. A tiny tug towards fantasizing
sex with all of tanned Los Angeles: but
otherwise you've not a worry in the world.

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('Peter getting out of Nick's pool' 1966 - David Hockney)

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