She wore a cauliflower dress on her ballerina bones
and a stare that would avert a devil’s gaze.
Her legs were swinging to a three-four time daydream of tomorrow
as she looked out over the park where she grew up.
The black ink pond water shivered as the moonlight
danced upon her and made her feel awkward in her movement.  
Then she took off her clothes and went swimming in the dark,
and went under never to come up.

She did this once a week.

And a bevy of swans cried, laughing in the night
with a much-a-do about nothing in their voice.  
Eight white dresses swimming without care,
over where she did the Houdini, moon-soaked routine.