Because time was so heavy her fragile lace was crushed. Because the world held still too long each moment twisted like a corkscrew, bored into her heartword like worms. It just made more sense to dress in heavy denims and leather. Smoke or warm wine could grease the seconds make them slip over each other in a fervent tumble--wine too bitter smoke too easy. Nonetheless, without them minutes lingered like bad company, crowded the hours and days with shrill laughter. Only small deaths could evict them. Hers or theirs--no choice was easy. Because now was forever her days melted into small puddles, soaked into the earth and she clothed herself in the granite of young mountains. Diamonds grew in her ears, bats nested in the crook of her arms, had babies and the dark flocks shaded her eyes from the moon. Now when she sleeps, she dreams, and she dreams the dreams are real. The dreams are hard as the rocks and her lace is the dust of her dreams.