They read to each other on rooftops in summer, only in summer. They had pre-arranged locations, always on rooftops, rooftops accessible, rooftops that belonged to none of them, all arrived at through trespass. They never convened if the temperature were below thirty degrees, never. They never told anyone, not their lovers, not their friends no one. They read poetry to each other.

They would slip out of the places they lived and the people they lived with. Deceiving when they had to lying when necessary, threatening on occasion and challenging in confrontation. Commitments had been made and no one, not one of them had submitted their "resignation".

New members of the circle?

None had been considered, none until Carole had arrived.

Not invited. Arrived. Appeared as if out of the tar and gravel rooftop the first time and then the second.

On this Carole's second appearance the quartet, Juliet, Thea, Brendan and Max, took stock of each other's trustworthiness.

"Stay over there," Thea instructed Carole, that second night, before turning to the other three sitting knee touching knee in an unbroken circle.

"Ok," she whispered into the circle of four, "who told her where we'd be?"

Each and all looked with suspicion to their neighbour, none confessed.

"Shit!" muttered Max, "somebody did and now what?"

Brendan, cast a quick glance over to where Carole had been standing next to the edge. She was gone.

"You're gutless little shits," Carole was sitting cross-legged immediately behind Thea. The circle of four, as if hit by a sonic wave, tremored and seemed to begin to shift away from Carole.

"Don't move," Carole snapped, "don't break the circle."

She was on her feet and began with slow deliberation, never taking her eyes off the four, moving from contact with Thea, to Juliet, from Max to Brendan.

"You wonder at how I found you," she was a small woman, her age, deceptive, her physical strength, evident more in attitude than actuality, for she was frail, beneath over sized army surplus jacket and lose fitting cargo pants. As she moved over the gravel rooftop her heavy boots ground out a militaristic consistency. The more she moved, the less liberty each of the four felt empowered to exercise.

You could see it in their eyes. You could sense it in the their acquiesance. You could feel it in the air surrounding them, something akin to fear.

Brendan was the first to attempt to break the spell as he began to get to his feet.

Carole was behind him at that instant, her hands upon his shoulders. She wore gloves with the fingers exposed, her grip was firm and somehow reassuring. Brendan resumed sitting without uttering a sound.

"Neruda," Carole said, looking at Thea, "Whitman", looking at Max, "Purdy, "and she glanced at Brendan, "Layton" Carole stopped directly across from Juliet.

"Layton."

Juliet looked away, between her legs, to her left and back down at the rooftop between her legs.

The others looked at Juliet, as Carole crouched close behind her.

For a moment there was silence, even the city had ceased to move, traffic in the millions of miles of poisoned pavements seemed to suspend itself, waiting, feeling also Carole's warm breath upon Juliet's exposed neck.

Carole reached around Juliet's shoulder, letting her left hand rest on her shoulder, fingers kneading the material of her blouse, working and tugging gently at the collar.

"Tell them why I'm here, how I found you?" Carole spoke gently, quietly into Juliet's ear as the index finger of her left hand indicated the assembled three. Juliet sat stock still allowing Carole to work her hand onto her neck and into the collar of her blouse, popping the top button.

Juliet began to reach to pull her blouse closed but was stopped by a touch from Carole's hand behind her.

"Max." Carole spoke confidently, "you will find a small camera behind me. I want you to take it and kneel across from Juliet. Thea and Brendan will remain where they are. When you are ready, Juliet will recite for us. You, Max, will take five shots of my hands."

Max hesitated, his eyes darting about the circle, avoiding Carole, initially. There was no reassurance, no defiance in any of the faces he paused upon.

"Max," Carole's voice intruded, drawing him to her. In her eyes there was more than defiance. "Juliet is courageous, more so than she has yet recognized." Carole has now entwined her arms about Juliet's shoulders, drawing their bodies close together.

"She doesn't recall our meeting," Carole whispered "but I bear no malice for that." Carole kisses Juliet behind her right ear, the tip of her tongue pressing ominously into her flesh.

"She argued and argued with that officious little prick of a librarian as to the sensuous strength of Layton, as to his language of, what was it, ah yes of course, virility that stirred the loins of men and women. Juliet spoke of Layton as a poet who dared, that's what she said, dared to search for the universal sexuality that was transgender in its magnificence. But Juliet never saw me standing there, next to her, she wouldn't glance at me as I gripped the counter with both hands listening to her, falling for her passion."

Max retrieved the camera and knelt down opposite Juliet, who with eyes closed, rested in Carole's arms. Brendan and Thea shifted, ever so slightly, ever so closer to Juliet. Juliet turned to look at Carole who rested her head on her shoulder, pressing her face closer, warmer to Juliet.

The effect of Juliet's words, her body lost in Carole's, seduced the others into a torpor of silence that magnified the sensuality of the words.

Without hesitation she began her homage to her Layton-lust. She began in a tone, quiet and caressing, she began reciting End of Summer, images danced in the circle of the three of a shimmering heat losing, losing its vigour and vitality, yet struggling to retain itself, each of the three feeling themselves caressed by a waning lover. Juliet, lost in Carole's arms recited the feast of Bacchanal, conjuring the orgy, as Thea tugged the hem of her skirt near waist high and the men, the men fumbled belts and zippers free exposing twisted hairs.

Max never wavered in his fourth shot, never lost the pristine focus, shooting of Carole's hands now upon Juliet's exposed breasts, her blouse removed.

Juliet's voice was liquid softness as her voice fell in love with The Glimpse.

No one saw but Max and he was struck dumb, for through imperfect lens he beheld upon Juliet's breasts, upon her naked flesh, the hands of the poet, mighty hands, hands that were in love with world, tactile and strong in their unwavering commitment to drawing from and caressing upon Juliet.

Max committed to the final shot as did the circle of three.