Hibernate with the spiders in the sleeping sheds. The smell of dry wood and crickets, the web smell and oil smell of resting tools. My fathers hands held the handles, wore the leather wrapped hatchet smooth as a chestnut. Fling spiders from your succulent arms, pale girl. Hold their looks in the web of your irises until some man comes along and with a pinch and a flick he clears out that look. A sound of sweeping is what will keep you awake all night. How much it sounds like sleep, like breathing.