Tear the corners off your 20 dollar bills



And paste them to

the swimmers shoulders



Save your spilling



Shorthand

and black thread



My side was aching low



We’re idiots

again



Comfort’s made of glass



All along the fault ripe

enough to rain



Mercy waits to let you lie



It’s not far

to lean



Just enough to speed curb



Hit running warm



Too close to ever see



Waiting station reds



Shift

down into clear



Shake the lead off your hands



Sawdust

mouthing



Roman axes way



Tender crazed the storm rolls

down your spine



Comfort’s made a mess



All along the

fault ripe enough to rain...