A dress. Dresses. 
 
Now she’s spilling bourbon over my a-line, all thumbs to keep our game up & running. Likewise I’ll write about it. As poet-jewel thief wearing a dress, you might think it profitable to string her sentences together like paste rubies & artificial pearls deliberately mismatched, like John Waters’ suburbs, adroitly inexpensive and passé. Each sentence shines in gloom as ends won’t match up with beginnings, not quite, each sparkle dulled into an afterthought containing falsehoods but cinched by faintly plausible, recognizable style — sparkle doubled down, my other dress draped over bowls of Chesapeake crabs & crab traps, a near accident or an accident-in-the-making. She might desire to push a personal datum, like me or your notion of having sex as linear as the death of a family member..  
It went pants & belts from there.