in progress: eleanor & the tiny machines

Eleanor sleeps and the sky goes dark.  Keeps hiding things in her tiny pockets.  Lock of hair, tiny tooth.  On the roof, we take turns chucking her off the side of the house. But she survives.  A real live girl.  A smoldering match.  Catches the wind and sails over the garden.  We tie her like a balloon to the fence, but still she lifts. Drifts from yard to yard, breaking everything she sees.  Swing set, shovel, busted patio chair. Everything she touches touches her, bruises the inside of her thighs. Just when we think she's high enough, she sinks into the rosebushes and goes out, pitch black.

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