Empty as Tip Jars

Her hands, empty as tip jars, curve glassy to cup the Pacific
And at her salt-rimed hips settles the silt of another sundried day.
The words she wears drop to the sand limp and less specific.

When the clouds crowd her ears she drowns their traffic,
Stringing shells in the cave of her skull that deafeningly sway;
Her hands, empty as tip jars, curve glassy to cup the Pacific.

Bleaching in the evenings, her legs snap and bend white as candlewicks
And her hourglass knees crush the rocks as if she meant to pray:
The words she wears drop to the sand limp and less specific.

Heaven burns a bridge across her nose redder than forgotten brick;
When she pauses in the afternoons, her lungs breathe hot delay.
Her hands, empty as tip jars, curve glassy to cup the Pacific.

Long gone, lost in a coastless nightmare she’s swum miles to kick
Wet and grasping from her ankles like seaweed from the bay,
The words she wears drop to the sand limp and less specific

When around her eyes the past creases dark and fish-quick,
Its clam edges burrow sharp as oysters deeper into the clay;
Her hands, empty as tip jars, curve glassy to cup the Pacific.
The words she wears drop to the sand limp and less specific.