Shell delicate, the green chin’s cracked: broken waxwing, broken wryneck. The down ups, bristling, kinking into curls. A fly-specked plaster, a cambric snicked with stitches: this grizzling frets against the grain. Scrit, scrit: the lie bare-faced, the whiskered fibbery--lily-white boys, cheek by jowl among the stubble. Peach-fuzz to blue-beard, she’s caught in their swart penumbra. Like the gossamer thread sprung from her arm a full three inches when she was eight, it opened her eyes. Out of the glass each barb of it speaks: Trust me. I hide what you are.
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