Regular
A plume of blood sprang
behind her in the pool.
The red wake sang.
In the natural order of things it's all sickness and dread.
It's all this familiar blood and dread.
Click click click.
The white beads of the lane lines flicking by.
I welcome the sickness, she said,
because I know it.
It's a sweet old round heavy thing.
She perfumed the pool steadily
with a good hard breaststroke.