Tweenage boys in floral dresses (jasmine and magnolia: heraldry of the dream-hennaed night) bludgeon frogs with grandfather clocks. But their arms, pale and slender as birches, cannot bear Time’s over(t)weening weight, and they stumble and tumble onto the tiles, checkered red and white in wistful geometry, like raspberry jam and butter. The winner, the first to make three croak, will be entitled to a pizza party in the Home Depot of his choice—the scent of nails and wood a festive preparation for the gym teacher’s crucifixion.

Elijah Giuliano. Suburbs, suburbs, no donkeys.

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