Jeannine Savard
	New Little Sister A little limelight, knocking back an old Tequila, she laughs as hard riding the lines — Hot/cool Razor grazing. Nothing stops here. Odd/even the tide in the distance takes over fin, tooth, snorkel, toe-ring —  Course set becomes the inevitable gamboge spume. Island scrub oak reach up for rapture, a riddle under the fair facial, scarlet flush 'accentuals,' hair pinching the nape. Days and days. A decision or script appears —                         (A ghost from a western paradise                        rings a tiny bell, and drops it                        like a long stemmed maraschino cherry into                        her dark Manhattan.) She says "I"                   I could wave at you, but these stiff crows     in my best orbit are placing cuffs on me. . .     She wants all her fanboys & girls  to know            all apertures are open,  calls you real real strip-prowlers, A+ star gazers                        and understands how you have to love the glow — she more than most.