There’s a poet in the pool keeping an eye on the tattooed sharks. There’s a poet in the pool doing what he can to remember to kick and not compare the lifeguard to a parakeet or a rhubarb and custard boiled sweet. There’s a poet in the pool convinced Barry Gibb is in the lane to his right – sunglasses on, lion’s mane damp against his cheeks, beard struggling to sing. There’s a poet in the pool wondering why he has arms. There’s a poet in the pool nodding at the Swiss Army knife to his left with goggles, nose strips, waterproof headphones, flippers, and a float. There’s a poet in pool breathing. There’s a poet in the pool wondering if the water is happy he’s there. There’s a poet in the pool just trying to stay alive.

Carl Burkitt 2026