When he enters the room,
the walls darken,

just slightly, and a cloud
covers the lake. But nobody notices. The party’s
already started.

and our hosts, dreamlike, serve up the last
of the summer cocktails

to gorgeous guests. Outside,
floating across the terrace, white petals. An old yacht
slides by. The murderer

is touching the cream pitcher. He circles
through conversations, then he is turning over
his silver:

the salad fork, just once, the spoon. His hands
move exactly—cool, detached

like the light slanting lower across the lawn. Slowly,
in October,

the body will surface, the body
will reveal itself

and though nobody knows yet, some women,
after the capture, will say I could tell something
was different. I just kind of sensed it,

but that’s not true. Only the walls
knew he was sliding among us,
a secret celebrity, and trailing after him

drama, romance, disease.