fig. 23) the margin, it breaks She's hiding in the shallow end of her otherwise deep pillow, waiting. Stay, stay, staying on target. Her hands tremble between her knees. It's like she's an old man boarding a very tall bus. The cotton slip she's wearing, the rose, or the pink of it is sweaty on her hip. It's ridden up Emile's leg and now her ass is hanging out of like the nape of a beast that's all backward knees with just one slit eye like a mocking jingle bell. Gentle handfuls of understanding form the long swooping crane of its neck. Knock, Knock, says the Jerk. The middle of her bed is an echo. It's like a tea pot with an urgent whistle and a hot handle. One that's first rate but not too fancy. Once it gets hot, it bangs and bangs behind her sweaty eyeballs so no else can sleep. The real moves, all the moves that're committed to this memory happen right at this edge. The still sheets drape and crumple there at the horizon. Then they ...