My girl hands had chap like a reptile from outside play. Smells ice your nose in winter barns. A man in layers pulls up brush with grey cotton gloves.
Coldness now is much refined. Driving by, I relate more to the cows than the people. Stand stock still with mouths moving, them from straw, me from tardive dyskinesia. We’ve all been on drugs to make us more acceptable and fat. None of us will live out the next year, because of drugs, because of acceptability, because of fat.