That is almost a breath, wheezy machine. Between the run off of brutal rains we thin what garden tomatoes remain. This summer is a lingering fast forward: an uncovered VCR tape of memories. The lungs want to trust; anything to escape the sensation of drowning. Each day a fish is forced to grow legs a heart a steam engine smelling of diesel and life. These joints need appropriate crank grease. The skin is a bilge wall, keeping in the sweat. This day, a magnetic tape of dreams, brittle under the sun.