Jeannine Savard
	Not Stopping for Sleep     All night long I fed aquamarine silk into a prize amphora. (If anyone else was there, they cleared out early.) Issuing from what nearby source, I wouldn’t know, I could not turn. I must have signed on for Overtime.   The bottle was exigent, and the lip, rolled-back, smooth as an old privacy. Was I standing-in for myself? Silk becomes tequila so easily, then ink dripping off the tips of my fingers. But where is The Worm, the one in charge of operations?   Over my head sheets of crisp tissue line the bottom of a gold box.   In the spare field, that one aunt, sitting on a mound of blueberries. She’s smiling now but was once so mean she asked me what kind of name it was I had. Not hers— that was the fault.   Bolides flashed in the high desert, a man riding a horse waved one silk flag from a pole attached to his saddle. He came to say we were living under dangerous conditions, any one could dissolve, right then, into thin air.