� � � �� � �She said she was bells; she was bows
� � tied� � � � � feverishly into plaited hair. She
� � had eyes� � � � � like Nevada. And I had not
� � enough hair� � � � � for ribbons.
� � � � � � I told her that there was nothing
� � between New� � � � � York and Virginia, and
� � she smiled,� � � � � with those limitless eyes
� � draped so casually� � � � � between lash and
� � lash trying not to finger� � � � � my small
� � lawn of hair, uneven piedmont� � � � � of
� � eyebrow. She said there would never be anything
� � but the small acorn of moon and the careful
� � crimson� � � � � of sunset that knew. Not even
� � me. Not even her.
� � � � � � Never take the small of a woman's hand
� � � � � � into your fingers, if she does not know
� � � � � � that you are real.
