I have turned the newspaper boy into a diver
for pearls.  I can do this.  In my night
there is no moon, and if it happens that I speak
of stars it’s by mistake.  Or if it happens
that I mention these things, it’s by design.

His body is brown, breaking through waves.  Such white teeth.
Beneath the water he searches for the perfect shell.
He does not know that, as he posts the Mirror
through the door, he is equal with dolphins.
I shall name him Pablo, because I can.

Pablo laughs and shakes the seaweed from his hair.
Translucent on his palm, a pearl appears.  He is reminded.
Cuerpo de mujer, blancas Colinas, muslos blancos.
I find this difficult, and then again easy,
as I watch him push his bike off in the rain.

As I watch him push his bike off in the rain,
I trace his name upon the windowpane.
There is little to communicate, but I have rearranged
the order of the words.  Pablo says You want for me
to dive again?  I want for you to dive.

Tomorrow I shall deal with the dustman.