Who is twelve? Not you, in absolute skirt, and sweet on treasures twisted out from underneath the pokeweed and plywood. Someone has promised you sticky canyon jewels, and then showed you where to put your hands, saying, It's like peeling the sky. And suddenly in your nervous uncle's fuchsia garden your life has the smell ofan old bone corset you've never seen. In your own miniature Illinois, the nightsworth ofever-early trains runs you ragged witll wool insomnia, squandered earthquake. Slowly, in a tight dress, cheating at truth or dare, a quick liquid has stolen its rival, heat, from your round body as you cross into sleep. |